


The Secret Heart

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Advanced Technology, Alternative First Meeting, Alternative realities, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartering with sex, Bonds, Consensual Sex, Cyborgs, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Healing, Jealous Sherlock, Love, M/M, Major societal differences, Mary is a bastard, Memory Loss, Moriarty is a bastard, Mrs. Hudson is so cool, Mutually beneficial arrangements, Mysterious Enemy, Non-Consensual Violence, Oblivious John, POV Alternating, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reality - alternating, Torture, Underage Rape, distantstarlight Happy Ending Guarantee, it's still Johnlock, topJohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes once lived an incredibly cloistered life of great luxury. His curiousity drives him from his home, and causes him to become part of a story in another world, one where he is vastly different. He meets someone, a new friend, a person who strikes a deal with him. It's mutually beneficial, and sparks something inside that neither person expected to find.Additional: This story was requested in detail by an artist who cleverly found my weak points by offering me art in exchange. They were incredibly patient with me, and even though it took months and months and months, they waited still.





	1. Alternatives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruxicassiopeia (vionavasthi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vionavasthi/gifts).



> The chapters have been written and will be released once a week some time each Tuesday until the fic is completely presented.

[Artwork and idea provided by this entity](http://ruxicassiopeia.tumblr.com/)

The laboratory was a work of art. Lights flickered with officious regularity across flat gleaming boards filled with panels broken into a grid of square keys. Each one was dimly lit with glowing symbols, simple prompts to remind the user of the complex actions a mere tap could activate. Moriarty sighed with contentment as he listened to the air pressure seal another capsule tight. It was nearly two meters long and gleamed just like everything else in the large space. All of it was immaculately clean, even the air scrubbed so the smallest microbes were caught up and disposed of instantaneously. Stroking the capsule for a moment longer, Professor James Moriarty, Head the Research and Development branch of Cybernetics in Whitehall, waved goodbye to his latest model, “Grow well, my possibly perfect darling. Perhaps you’ll be the one who makes daddy’s dreams come true.”

Sighing, he stepped away and gave his assistant her evening rota of chores, “Yes Professor.” Doctor Hooper was so accommodating, her naturally submissive nature very appealing to the dominant, if somewhat diminutive, doctor, “I’ll call if there are any changes to the growth patterns.” He couldn’t help smiling at the latest sealed growth unit. The transition toward artificially constructed bio-mimics hadn’t been flawless, but hopefully, this particular generation would see the last of those flaws removed, or at least diminished. His partner had ideas for the next stage of their plans, but before that could happen, they needed an appropriate vessel in which to enact them. Immortality was within reach.

He made himself turn away and looked down at his assistant. She cringed a bit but that’s what he liked about Doctor Hooper. _She was definitely the mouse and he was most certainly the cat. She’d never betray him, simply from the terror of the unspoken aftermath of his potential outrage_. One step out of line and he could destroy Molly Hooper without effort, and they both knew it. “See that you do, if all goes well, the whole body should be complete before dawn. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on him.” Molly nodded and Moriarty contented himself, “If my partner or Mary, calls, tell them that I’m quarantined away doing research. I don’t want to be bothered for the rest of the night unless it’s an emergency.”

“Sir.” Doctor Hooper knew to keep her mouth shut. Mary was enough of a shrew and difficult to keep pacified at the best of times. James wasn’t in the mood to entertain her sexual demands, not tonight. He’d married her for her money and her political connections, as well as the business connections her now late father had had, and not for their marriage bed. She knew the lay of the land but also what she was owed. James didn’t care much for women, but he’d managed to convince Mary that she roused him so much that he was willing to turn his back on his sexuality due to his love for her, even if the physical parts were as rare an event as he could manage. Mary would have to find something else to do tonight because James Moriarty had a date.

_Well, sort of a date_.

With a delighted giggle, he changed out of his sterile surgical wraps and climbed into slightly rank trousers, and a clinging dark blue top that he then covered in a coat made with a dozen pockets. Carefully he filled them with small pressure distributors already loaded with solutions that he’d prepared himself. There were several different types, all ready for whatever he needed. Carefully he included a light tissue repair mist, a friction reducer, and the DNA seeker he’d designed. He was in the mood for a bit of a wiggle, and he wasn’t interested in having his fun curtailed by his legal but relentlessly female wife. _Oh no. Tonight was for pale skin, long limbs, a pretty cock, and a lush tight behind_.

Recklessly he used the public transporter right in front of his offices and had himself beamed directly to the dank parts of London. There he slid off into the maze of twisting alleys that still existed, making his way to a block of abandoned flats that he legally owned. There in the faint light, a boy waited. Moriarty contained his gleeful grin, “William?” he called nervously, but inside he was laughing. _Oh, he was going to have such a good time tonight._ Already his cock was hardening.

“Jimmy?”

Yeah, it’s me.” _William and Jimmy_. James laughed to himself again. Young William thought he was so clever as if distressed clothes and a bit of dirt could hide his fine bone structure, the sharpness of his cheekbones, or the distinctive color of his eyes. His head of wild shining black curls was another giveaway, but the youngest brother of the arrogant Mycroft Holmes was in his own way, as thick as mud, blinded by his own pride. _They were right to hate the Holmes family, but then, they had good reason to_. William had nothing to do with that, but that’s not why James was here. He’d found William of his own accord, and for the last several months, had been allowing himself more and more fun. Tonight was a night to reward himself for all his patience.

“Inside lad. Make sure the coast is clear.” Of course, it was clear, Moriarty had hired a group of street thugs to make sure this building stayed cleared at all times. There was only one junkie allowed inside, and currently, James Moriarty was enjoying watching said junkie walk in front of him. William Sherlock Scott Holmes was a beautiful creature, his bloodline was almost of secondary consideration, but not entirely dismissible. William came to Jimmy for one thing and one thing only, _drugs_ and Jimmy was more than happy to oblige. He introduced the boy to stronger and stronger euphorics, counting on the young genius’ addictive nature to help bait his trap, “This one will make your mind soar.”

Eagerly the boy rolled up his sleeve and let the dose be administered without questioning anything. They were in one of the many empty rooms available, the convenient mattress on floor cleaner than any flophouse mattress was supposed to be, but then, only he had ever used it, he and Sherlock. James waited thirty minutes before he began, allowing the young boy to enjoy his high before the second half of the drug kicked in. _It was only fair_ . As soon as those bright eyes went dull, James gave a great laugh and began his assault with glee and unfettered impulse. _How delighted he had been to learn that Mycroft’s baby brother was rebellious and bored, two qualities he could manipulate easily. He’d been trying to find a way to get to the elusive Holmes brother for years, and Sherlock’s very blood was the key he needed to fabricate a key to their home, the most powerful information node anywhere in the world_. Sherlock clearly had no idea.

It was pure happenstance that Moriarty had come across the boy who identified himself as William late one night. He had been browsing his way through local rent-boys looking for a rough tumble. It cost a great deal to find a lad who would allow him to do what he really liked to do, and the overall effect was ruined because of the financial exchange. Still, if you looked around, there was always someone selling what you wanted to buy, and for James, no cost was too much when his itch needed scratching. This boy appeared to be barely able to claim sixteen years, looking for a way to temporarily forget his reality, and James had conveniently been able to provide a product that did exactly that. The sweet little innocent offered currency, but James had already decided that financial gain was the last thing he’d be interested in. Still, a feeble price was tendered, enough to assuage the boy’s natural suspicion. He left the William a small card with a number he could link to, a secret line that only Moriarty had access to, and there it had begun.

Week after week, month after month, Moriarty had eased William into trusting him more and more. Finally, only a month after Sherlock’s seventeenth birthday, Jimmy’s first great opportunity came. William accompanied him to these very flats and had allowed himself to be drugged insensate. In past sessions, William was provided a safe place to languish and woke unmolested the next day. Not any longer, not that William knew that. As soon as his stupor was at its height, James had peeled the young boy out of his clothes and had spent hours indulging himself on the unresisting flesh he’d bared. The experience allowed him to attain a state of euphoria he knew he’d never be able to replicate. The boy was entirely helpless, and completely against everything he was made to participate in, and the wrongness of it all was the biggest high Moriarty had ever experienced. It was more addictive than any drug he could manufacture, and he decided then and there to never let Sherlock go. Drawing several measures of blood to use as a base for his next project, James proceeded to hide all traces of his assault with ease.

All of his wicked memories were lovely and Sherlock was as beautiful now as he had been then. His skin was milky and dotted with elegant moles and freckles in all the right places. His body hair was mostly fuzz, and his flesh was still so soft and tender, his youth still very present even as his body teetered on the edge of full-blown adulthood. Lust burned hot as James fantasized about how Sherlock would look as an older man. He wasn’t very fussed about the boy’s current age, but he did normally prefer a much more mature and fatherly appearing partner. _Oh, how he wanted someone strong to just come take him, to break him down, and own him_. It would never happen. The only person he’d ever met that might have the will to emotionally disassemble him was his partner, and they had made it more than clear that anything physical was never going to be. It didn’t matter, role-reversal worked well enough for now. Sherlock’s youth would pass, and until then, James would have to keep himself satisfied with the boy’s body if not his mind. He’d seduce the mind inside it later, train it, shatter it, force him to be what Moriarty wanted him to be. The games they could play were unlimited, the challenge was in the difficulty of turning a razor sharp mind against itself. Anyone could break a lesser mind, but his rarified tastes demanded more. James put that all aside for now.

He stopped trying to restrain himself even a tiny bit. _Paying for it was nowhere near as exhilarating as just taking it. Glorious, just taking what he wanted was glorious_. Falling to his knees he stripped himself naked and turned William onto his back. Using his hand for a minute, he rubbed the lubricating agent on his already hard cock. Without any ado, he lined himself against William’s small constricted hole and thrust as hard as he could. It hurt a bit because the boy was always so tight, but as with the first time, Moriarty crooned as he broached. He loved forcing his way in, making the flesh give way to his power. He liked how it felt to dominate someone, to make them take something they would never ask for, that they never wanted. He regretted that unconsciousness was necessary. _If William had been awake he would have screamed and struggled, cried and maybe even tried to plead, but worse, he would remember and report_. The thought of it made him harder, how over the line of law he was, how against the very fabric of their society he was behaving, and with a savage growl he bit William’s neck. Plowing into the boy’s body with his own, James was reveling in the mess of it, the rankness of unplanned sex, fucking as hard as he felt like despite the damage he was causing. That was part of the fun.

The mattress was soon stained beyond recovery but James wasn’t done. Pulling out, he threw the boy onto his stomach and knocked his long legs wide. Holding himself, Moriarty pushed back into the limp body with a groan, going deeper than he’d ever dared to before, bucking harder and harder as he selfishly used William for his own pleasure, “One day I’ll fuck you while you’re awake, maybe in front of your brother. Would you like that…Sherlock? I think you would. I’d be loud too, so he could hear how much I love using you. I’ll moan out things like _oh Sherlock, your arse is so tight_. Does your brother know you whore yourself out for drugs? I don’t see why he should since you don’t even know. What about _oh pretty Sherlock, I love coming inside you_ .” James had to laugh at the situation, and he giggled out his words, “You have no idea how much of my come you’ve drunk, or how much I’ve put inside this sweet little hole. You will one day, my beautiful boy, my lovely little patrician, my sweet little precious prince.” Moriarty was moaning nonsense now, his release nearly upon him. He didn’t try to make it last. On _Date Night_ , as he called it, Moriarty was capable of multiple orgasms, and on past evenings, had many times violated Sherlock creatively. He made sure that the boy would be unconscious until the dawn, so Moriarty could fuck the youth as many ways as he wanted. It was very nearly perfect.

That night he was indulgent with himself. He used Sherlock’s mouth as often as he used his arse, planting his seed fore and aft with vigor. When he was finally done, the lad was covered from head to toe in semen, blood, and muck. It was gorgeous. Moriarty enjoyed the sight of it until it was time to clean up. Carefully he sprayed his custom-agents all over his plaything. They’d been developed to cleanse the artificial constructs his company supplied but they were just as effective on living persons, and harmless as well. The first mist removed all traces of his night from the lad’s body, everything falling away into their component elements, leaving every bit spotlessly clean, even the mattress. The second spray repaired all the physical damage James had inflicted, making bruises vanish, and sealing together torn tissue, even the tissue deep inside. He’d spent ages perfecting this part of the product, specifically for this purpose. The third reinforced the amnesia the syringe had begun, and with regret, Moriarty redressed his toy. Using the DNA tracker, he checked to make sure he’d left no internal trace evidence behind, minimizing risks as much as he could. Carrying the lad in his arms, Moriarty deposited him in another room to recover in his own time.

James regretted that he needed to get back to his wife but a deal was a deal, and for the most part, he honored his end. He made a mental note to organize another date night for the upcoming weekend. He was only temporarily satisfied right now and wanted another round of the hedonistic pleasure that was so much better than the tepid and sometimes awkward sex he managed to have with his spouse. Too bad he was the only one who knew what happened in these rooms. When William woke, he’d think he’d merely slept his high off and would go home clueless, and with no idea that he’d been raped raw by his brother’s worst enemy. Just the memory of the sordid debauchery that he’d committed was enough to make his weary cock twitch with interest once more. _Later_. Moriarty promised himself a great many things. For now, he had obligations to take care of; a quick stop at the labs to check on things, then off home where he’d partake of his usual post-coital traditions, spoiling his oblivious wife.

Sherlock wasn’t far behind him. The boy had indeed woken only minutes after James quit the building and had staggered off, feeling worn out but replete. He ignored the stiffness of his body as the result of the euphorics he’d indulged in as well as the lack of movement he’d endured as he lay on the chilled mattress for hours. It was nothing to worry about. Neither James nor Sherlock noticed the third party, a rounded and angry looking person who hid in the shadows and watched with glittering eyes. William only made it six blocks before he was caught, this time feeling unconsciousness arrive by way of a hard blow to his head, “You spoiled little cock! How dare you? How dare you be with him when he’s mine! You’re going to pay for this. You are going to pay dearly!” Mary Morstan stood over the slight body of the young man, her rage making her normally pleasant feature twist into a hate-filled mask. “No one is taking my James from me, no one including spoiled little rich boys with daddy complexes.”

Mary dragged the boy the closest transit cube. Dialing a number, she kicked the lad in the ribs hard before pressing the activation key. In a twinkling, they were both in another part of the city. “Jim isn’t the only one with secrets.” She spat in the boy’s face. “Daddy taught me a thing or two about getting rid of _problems_.” The boy was waking up and he looked confused. Mary slapped him hard, enjoying the shock on his face as pain exploded from the contact point, “You little whore! You are fucking my husband! I’m going to gut you!”

“Drugs.” Moaned the boy, he lifted his hands imploringly, “I just get drugs from him. No sex. Not ever! I don’t sell that.”

“I saw him with his cock inside you!” she shrieked. Mary planted viewers all throughout that building. She’d discovered that her husband spent a good deal of time there so she checked into it, and the suspicions that had grown over the last year were vindicated. _Filthy little trollops! Disgusting little trespassers!_ Mary glared at him. This wasn’t the first time she’d chastised bad boys for breaking the rules, their rules. The boy looked stunned and sickened. Mary spat in his face again. “Little boys who play with other people’s toys get punished.” Mary backhanded him so hard that he collapsed to the floor, dazed and unable to speak, “I’m going to take you to pieces and I’m going to make it last for as long as I feel angry about what you did to me. You had _sex_ with _my_ husband, you traded your dirty little hole for whatever it was that you took and you fucked my husband!”

_How did he have the nerve to protest? She had it recorded on her comm!_ Furiously, she broadcast the captured stream on the walls around them. The little boy-whore was shaking his head, still trying to deny it, and Mary smiled at the fear in the boy’s eyes as he finally took in the sight around him. This room was as sterile as her husband’s much-prized lab. _It ought to be it was in the same building_. Daddy had made a place for his little girl because he loved her, and she appreciated it, she really did. _Mary was a tiny bit sorry that she’d had to kill daddy but James had asked her to do it, and she couldn’t deny her husband a thing_. “He’s just down the hallway, probably. He spends most of his time here.” She smirked down at Sherlock, “Do you think he’d try to stop me? Maybe your services are worth more than my family’s influence? No, I don’t think he’d save you. You’re not worth saving, but my marriage is. James can play with his fabricated toys all he wants, it doesn’t bother me a bit when he does, but little boys like you…I forgive James, he’s only so strong and I know how you disgusting little perverts like to sell yourselves.” Forgiving her husband was easy, but under no circumstances was some little street-rat going to corrupt the purity of her bond with James. _They’d made a deal. Mary got rid of daddy and gave James the company but only if James married her and stayed married. James wasn’t technically breaking the rules because he’d never once promised to be faithful, just married, so she couldn’t punish him. That would be unthinkable. This little gutter-snip though. He was fair game_. “Scream all you want, little boy, I like it.” She loved it nearly as much as she loved James.

Mary had already hidden her nice clothes away and changed into disposable medical scrubs. The boy was trying to say that he hadn’t had sex ever before. Little liar. She’d seen it happen with her own eyes. The proof was playing all around them. _Revolting. She’d have the entire implant replaced as soon as possible. Erasing the streams wouldn’t be nearly enough_. She needed to obliterate all the evidence as thoroughly as possible, and that included the skinny little slut in front of her now. Questions were pointless. Perhaps he could have told her what the deal was with James but Mary wasn’t interested in hearing anything the boy had to say so she removed his tongue first. Tossing it into the bin, Mary selected another sharp-edged instrument from the array of medical tools she had at her disposal as she listened impassively to the gurgling screams of agony behind her. As a nurse, she had to balance her natural skills with what a patient’s needs were, so she couldn’t afford to become too emotionally bothered when someone was uncomfortable. Professionally she observed the strength and vigor behind the cries and decided that he would last for quite some time before shock killed him. She was talented enough to ensure that he wouldn’t die directly from what she planned to do with him. She was a medical specialist after all, highly trained to assist with hands-on surgery in those rare instances where it was even required anymore.

With the breakthroughs in modern medicine, humans were living longer healthier lives, and small irksome problems like missing or defective parts were a regrettable memory thanks to companies like this one. The only mystery left was that of the brain. The rest of the human body had been mastered and replicated via facilities like this one. James had a partner that was working on secret designs for an artificial brain, and when it was perfected, their company would be the most powerful one on the planet. James had not only multiplied the family wealth several times over but by using the doors the Morstan’s invited him through, had grown their influence until it had become a global concern.

Mary was proud of what her family had accomplished. Sex toys were a lucrative industry, and since James came on board with his lifelike sex doll designs, their company had grown diversified in ways they had not anticipated, not only creating interchangeable human organs available for anyone anywhere, but the advances in artificial intelligence they’d spear-headed, a field of study that had already allowed much of the planet to benefit from semi-organic beings programmed to help with the mundane parts of existence, leaving humanity to finally enjoy an era where everyone had food, shelter, and good health. Humanitarian efforts aside, the bulk of their wealth now came from the sales of custom grown, artificial sex slaves, ones that could withstand any sort of sexual demand and kind of perversion. They could barely keep up with the demand, they were so popular. Her family had already enjoyed many generations of wealth and privilege, now their family would never suffer for lack of anything that kept them well.

Good physical health at any rate. Mental defects were still a problem, not that Mary had a problem. Daddy had made those reports go away. She was perfectly fine. There was nothing wrong with her, nothing that a few slices here…and here…and here…could not fix. The boy howled quite pleasingly as well. He was making a bit of a mess, though, the once pristine operating theater now dramatically splashed with sprays of blood. It was all the thrashing about. Mary made a decision and followed through. Soon, the boy could thrash no longer but he could still make those wonderful choking screams that she found so soothing. She felt pleasantly weary now and checked the time. Oh, she was going to be late for her luncheon date with James! He always took her someplace romantic. Girlishly she laughed as she stripped herself of her well-soiled scrubs. What was left after her rage was still moaning softly on the table but the vast amount of crimson on the floor told her that it wouldn’t be moaning for long; _good_. She’d order the room sanitized. James had a little mop that worked for him, she’d do as she was told without question. Mary spent years training her up. A few slaps here and the odd judicious cut there, and James never had to worry about incompetent help, not like all his previous assistants. A few taps on her comm ensured that her demands would be dealt with. With another giggle, Mary hurried off. James was waiting for her, and it wouldn’t do to keep the most wonderful man alive waiting.

Molly was exhausted. Professor Moriarty was a difficult person to work with in that he didn’t seem to understand that she wasn’t present at the lab twenty-four hours a day. She’d been here for thirty-six hours this time and groaned with frustration as an Order flashed on her wrist. MM. Fear shot through her as she recognized the Professor’s wife’s signature tone. The implant signaled that she was required to personally oversee the removal of organic waste from OR 42. Molly scowled. _There were mechs for doing waste removal! It was an insult to make her do this. Was she being punished for something?_ Asking would only get her pain and she’d still have to do the job no matter how tired she was. With another frustrated sigh, Doctor Hooper gathered a large kit together and took herself to the site in question. It was sickening. She’d never seen such gore. _There were hunks of organic matter strewn everywhere, entire limbs! Had someone gone through the re-gen banks for some reason? They’d wasted nearly an entire body worth of regrown flesh!_

Molly gathered it all up, stuffing the parts into a recycling sac that she then deposited into the disposal unit. The flesh would be taken apart and re-used as part of other experiments. It wasn’t until she began to deal with the mess on the table that Molly realized that the warm hunk of flesh was still alive. Horror filled her. _She’d been cleaning a kill room! A human being was expiring right beside her and there was nothing she could to save…him?_ Parts of its body were particularly mangled, but after a quick look, Molly saw that there were male…bits… left. Without further thought, Doctor Hooper got to work. Several orders were tapped into the OR board and almost instantly the man on the table was being anesthetized. She didn’t worry about his heart stopping. She’d be taking it out in a moment anyway. With precision, she used the instruments that were automatically presented to her as her robotic helpers mechanically got on with doing their jobs. Deftly, Doctor Hooper completed each stage, and one container after another was filled with still living organs. Carefully she rescued as much as she could and after a bit of dithering, sent the remainder to be recycled with the rest. Once the last of the containers were properly activated, Molly saw to the completion of the sanitation process. No one would ever know that someone had been dissected alive, or that their parts had been smuggled away in broad daylight.

Molly knew she had no time to lose. The organs were severely traumatized; they’d need to be encased in a transport unit as soon as possible but there were so many of them! There was one option but it would cost Molly her job. After only a moment’s more thought Doctor Hooper made her decision. _She couldn’t stay here another day. Professor Moriarty was killing her with overwork. His wife was mad, and unstable to boot._ All of the Professor’s previous assistants had gone mysteriously missing after only a few months, it was something of a miracle that Molly had lasted this long. After tonight Mary wouldn’t let Molly live much longer. Deciding to take chances not only for herself but for the poor soul she was trying to save, Doctor Hooper deactivated the growth program on the Professor’s latest amusement, a toy he’d programmed with his own somewhat disturbing needs in mind. It was 99% done and would survive its early removal. Doctor Moriarty’s tastes were extreme, and he’s spent years attempting to perfect a vessel that could withstand his urges, which one might politely refer to as diverse. It made Molly a bit sick to see what happened to the earlier experiments, but her ability to clean up messes was one of the many reasons Professor Moriarty kept her around.

Three minutes later a nearly complete and fully grown but almost featureless human body was laying out on the table in front of her. Despite her exhaustion, Molly ordered all the mechs in the room to assist the transplant procedures, and one organ at a time, she filled the blank with remaining human parts, saving the most important one for last. The blank was exactly that, a blank. It was vaguely humanoid and definitely male, but otherwise, it was a nude, colorless, featureless…blank. Molly sealed the cranium closed after that last implant was done. The semi-sentient fibroids would take the time to place themselves and begin working in synchronicity with the organs she had placed. Her hands were shaking with weariness now, and she had to let the mechs take control of the last bit of nerve placement. She made sure the self-regenerating flesh was active, that all the seams were closed properly. With some satisfaction, she witnessed the follicles on its bald head begin to darken. Excellent. That meant the brain had implanted successfully and was now coordinating a physical exterior to develop based on the original body’s DNA. In an hour, the brain she’d rescued would be living inside a fully mature male body, and it would appear exactly as the brain’s original body would look in its twenty-fifth year. Molly hoped that was close to the body’s real age. It was a default setting on the growth unit, and she couldn’t change it now.

She examined the rest of the blank. There were minor exterior flaws, most importantly, the hands. The difficult skeletal system was in place, and with enough food, the body would slowly grow flesh to cover those bones but it would take time, and time was something they didn’t have. She sprayed on a compound that would protect the skeletal system and feed the growth. It would take ages for the hands to come in on their own, but it would happen eventually if it wasn’t deactivated first. They’d never allowed a blank to mature for longer than six months, so she had no idea what was going to happen to it when they arrived at their destination. Hurrying, Molly wrapped the blank in a sheet, got herself into her casual street clothes, and got her patient into a transport chair. It was the old fashioned type with wheels instead of the zero gravity unit, but then, where she was going, she wouldn’t be able to use the other sort so perhaps it was for the best. As Moriarty’s assistant, she’d been required to partake in many questionable projects, and all of them had taught her something, even if it was just where things were.

Molly smiled and nodded her way through the facility. Again, as Moriarty’s assistant, everyone was accustomed to seeing her all over the place at any hour. Everyone knew how demanding her employer was, and no one wanted to cross him or his wife. Molly was allowed to go anywhere she wanted without hesitation, doors opening automatically as she proceeded to roll the chair toward another part of the huge complex. Even she had to stop and verify her ID more than once but no one questioned her supposed task, “The Professor is testing the Gate tonight.”

The Gate was a portal to another dimension. Several had been found around the planet, but the company’s founder, Mr. Morstan, was head of the family that had found this one, and after James had helped inflate the family fortunes into gargantuan proportions, he had built this facility around it. The Gate went to a reality very like this one, but trips through ended up causing dangerous fluctuations in the weather, and affected the severity of tectonic activity. Care was absolutely necessary when using them, and travel was strictly monitored. Moriarty had attempted several different things, using all resources at his disposal to try and make the trips eventless. Nothing had worked and the Gate continued to be not only monitored but kept out of reach from the unsuspecting public. Most Gates were similarly sequestered. It was all very well to be able to go somewhere but only if you wanted to be there forever. It wasn’t legal to just toss things through but Moriarty did it anyway. Small items seemed to make no impact, and he’d been working his way up to bigger and bigger things. It was known that a person passing through caused a certain kind of ripple to manifest but only for a moment. Scholars debated about the balance of matter, and in the end, the decision was to stop tempting fate with testing until they understood more about why Gates existed in the first place.

Peeking was possible, and very often that was all a Gate could offer, a one-way window into another reality. Molly had spent years now being involved first hand with the study of this one. The Morstans were one of the most powerful families on the planet, only a few others were more powerful than they. Perhaps she should use the word “had been”. Technically there were no Morstans left, Mary was the last and she was now a Moriarty and had been for years. Their funding and projects had given Molly a lot of experiences during her tenure at the Facility. It had also given her a lot of bad moments, like the day she discovered that her counterpart on the other side of the gate had died as an infant. It had been a depressing discovery knowing that she’d never be able to connect with them the way she’d been taught to. She’d met Mollys from other realities when she’d been going through training. If she went through the Gate now, timelines would alter to fit her into it, forcing a place in space-time for someone who didn’t belong there. It would strain that reality a bit, and if pushed too hard, could tear it. Bringing a blank with her was a factor she couldn’t parse without her equipment. It could damage the other reality and destabilize it so severely it might never recover. It would erase the two of them rather than risk the possible destruction of either plane.

Molly decided she didn’t have a choice. She had a life to save, and for once in her existence, she wasn’t going to wait until someone told her what to do. There were so many risks, and so much cost involved, that for the first time ever, Molly Hooper made a purely selfish choice for purely selfish reasons. She was getting out and getting a life of her own. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the blank right up to the shimmering disk that floated in the white chamber. Gates were one-dimensional. There wasn’t another side but it was flat. You couldn’t see the back of it, no matter what. Even if you surrounded a Gate with a ring of sensory equipment or even people, you could only see the front. You could go through it easily enough, and more than one person had been accidentally lost through one. That’s why the ban on testing was so prohibitive. Even with her expansive permissions, Molly was still being watched closely by the many observers working around her, all ostensibly on site to prevent accidents.

Today was no accident. Before anyone could register that she wasn’t just depositing an experiment through the Gate like she’d done so many times before, Doctor Molly Hooper stepped briskly through the dark gray shimmer with her charge and disappeared. The disk itself quivered for a moment but then regained its equilibrium. After a moment of shocked silence before alarms rang out another employee notified their boss that his assistant position would need refilling yet again.

In his office, Gregory Lestrade heard the much-dreaded chimes go off. For fuck’s sakes! How many breaches could reality take before it tore completely? Was someone trying to get deleted? Grabbing his long coat, he raced out of his office. Donovan was by his side, her fingers tapping out urgent messages on her comm even as they dashed from the building. As soon as their unit gathered, they stepped into the group transport unit and were brought to the main entrance of a large complex. A single display of his badge was all the permission he needed before he was being bowed through and allowed to run down long corridors until they found the room they needed. Instruments were set up everywhere and soon Anderson was reading off the report, “One human female, one male cyborg unit, blank. Traces indicate a successful transfer in a large urban area. With as much time as has gone by, they’re long gone by now. Tracking will be difficult.”

“Difficult but not impossible.” Lestrade hated to do this, he really did, “Alright, set up here. Bring the chair.” Donovan didn’t like that he did this and neither did his husband, “I’ve got to make contact.”

Lestrade stepped off to a private corner and tapped his own comm, “Myc?” A dignified bureaucrat answered, the three-dimensional image visible to Lestrade only, “Hi babe.” He stroked the image and knew his husband could feel his caress via the implant they shared with one another, “It’s about work.”

Mycroft Holmes looked a bit disgruntled but rallied quickly. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t needed to leave for work at the last moment many times in their past, and would again in their future. Still, this part of the job really bothered his mate, “I understand, my love, you will be safe.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order. “How long do you expect?”

“It’s just a looky-loo this time, a day? Maybe two if it is complicated but I can’t do more than that for now, not unless I have more evidence. All I know is that the fabric has been breached. I’ve never connected through this Gate before so I’m not exactly sure what to expect.” One advantage to being married to the ruling classes was the access to information that his husband enjoyed. Their legal binds granted Greg the same access, and as one, the pair used their marital connections to enhance their respective jobs as was right and proper for any married couple to do. Their combined family was powerful, both bloodlines renown for bravery and their ability to connect. Mycroft once had Greg’s job, if only for a few months. His skills were so rare and powerful that he’d risen quickly, connecting instead to the hierarchy that governed their planet as an information repository. The city had benefited, and their marriage was hailed as a monumental success. With that success came great responsibility, and though the least powerful of the pair, the DI was the one personally responsible for the riskiest part of their work.

Mycroft’s face was impassive but the undertones of his words were a code that Greg knew down to his bones, “We will speak when you return.” It sounded so cold but it meant so much. Mycroft was steadfast in his certainty that his husband would return to him when so many of his counterparts had been lost to chaos, their minds snuffed out by their experiences. Mycroft had faith that their combined lives would continue and that the personal bliss that they shared would be something to be enjoyed together sometime soon. Those cold sounding words had more meaning to Lestrade than even I love you could convey.

“I’ll make dinner.” I will come back. I will still want to care for you. My heart will always be yours. Mycroft looked wooden, but then he often did when he was in company. He was probably in a meeting, discretely turned away so no one could read his lips or discern meaning from his body language. It wasn’t anything new, so Greg didn’t worry about the lack of overt intimacy. He didn’t expect it, and anyway, his husband had already said everything that he needed to hear. They would speak again, and soon.

The Detective Inspector took off his long coat and sat in the efficiently erected chair. It looked like something you’d find in someone’s den, a comfy squashy chair that a bloke could sink into and rot the day away in complete idleness. In some respects, that was exactly its purpose. Laying back he closed his eyes and waited for the device to penetrate his spinal column. It didn’t hurt, not anymore, not after all these years. Closing his eyes, Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector for Time and Reality Division, allowed his consciousness to float free of his corporeal self and do what only a few bloodlines in the multi-verse could do, he merged his thoughts with his parallel self on the other side of the Gate. There was a Gregory Lestrade there. There was a Gregory Lestrade in every universe, and all of them worked for the Law, or whatever their code was called. All of them were capable of communicating with all the rest, given the right equipment, and since Lestrade was from what had been arrogantly called Universe Prime, all other universes were numbered as they were discovered. This gate had been the very first, so it was number two. No other descriptor was encouraged, no nicknames nor pet names for any universe ever. Each one was only slightly different that the rest, small details growing into bigger and bigger ones until eventually there came a point where it was impossible to relate their reality with your own, that is unless you were born pre-joined.

Lestrade’s job existed precisely because of his natural ability to understand and communicate with vastly different versions of himself. He provided huge amounts of information to his people, and all of it was used for the good of the many. When he slid into Greg2, it felt like coming home. This universe was extremely similar to his. Their technologies were different, but that was essentially it. It was a shame that this particular Earth had chosen to follow their urge to conquer more than their urge to create, or they’d be so much further along and at ease with their world. Greg2 was a cop, and at the moment he was listening to someone at the other end of what Greg1 presumed was a comm. It was a flat hand held device that he could hear a voice coming from. “So you saw a flash of light and two people came out of the wall?” Greg2 was about to say something dismissive to the caller but Greg1 took over, “Give me the address.”

It had to be their runaways. Now Greg had to find them both and discover why someone would risk crossing over when they had to know there was no chance of coming back. His notes said that one Doctor Molly Hooper had calmly wheel-chaired a sentient humanoid blank through with her. _Why? Why steal a blank? Why go to another universe with it?_ It wasn’t so very difficult to vanish on their world, surveillance wasn’t permitted, Mycroft ensured that no one’s privacy was ever disturbed. That was his job. Negotiating with world governments was also his job, and doling out the information that his mate provided after each return. Greg began to look quickly through what he now knew to call his office, and brought himself up to speed on his life. He was still a Detective Inspector, but this time for violent crimes. _Interesting_ . _Why would he have received a call about a flash of light?_ “The man in the chair was dead, he had to have been. He looked all…empty. Like a dead guy.” The witness sounded shaken, “The lady just walked off like it was nothing, wheeling him down the street, and him with nothing on but a sheet! He was totally bald too, I mean, you could see everything. Even if he hadn’t been dead, it was a disgrace! Someone needs to find them!”

“Don’t you worry about anything. I’m sending someone to that location immediately. Thank you for doing your civic duty.” He breathed a sigh of relief at the intercept. It was fortunate that this particular communication had happened. He was a tiny bit surprised when he recognized the subordinate who popped in to answer the call he made, “Donovan, get a team down to this address. You’re looking for a brunette female pushing a nearly nude male in a wheelchair. Both are to be brought directly to the Yard with zero questions asked! This is a high priority case, get on it. Now.” Just like her counterpart, Donovan seamlessly executed her orders. She was a tough woman, but she needed to be. She used everything she had, rounding up the less than enthusiastic members of their division with shouts and open threats.

Driving nearly gave him away. Luckily for him, Greg2 was an old hand at driving, his body automatically doing what needed to be done in response to all the stimuli his brain was processing. For nearly anyone else, having another personality override yours would drive you insane. Lestrade instead experienced a mild curiosity followed by a now familiar sense of understanding. All Lestrades instinctively knew their purpose and design once they’d been made aware of it by another rider. The several minutes it took to drive to the location were all the time he needed to adjust to the minute but many differences between his reality and this one. Here he was divorced from more than one woman, had several children, all of whom were adults now, and was dating Mycroft Holmes on the sly. That pleased Greg1. It was nice to see his relationship show up in other realities. There were many where they never got together, instead each man pairing off with another person or with no one.

Greg2 was confused about his sexuality, the advances made by Mycroft made him uncomfortably aware that he had no experience with men, but that lack did nothing to quell the desires he was beginning to feel. Greg1 understood that in this reality there were stigmas against pairings of same-sex individuals and other permutations. It was one of the oddest differences he’d ever seen, even compared to the austere reality where people only copulated during the third month of the year, and then with only a single partner for as brief a time as they could manage. How could you hate people who were born to love whom they loved? Mentally shrugging, Greg1 assured Greg2 that engaging in a physical romance with a man could be very rewarding if he chose to try.

_Why are you here?_ The question was sensed more than heard. His answer was given the same way. Too many tears in the fabric of space-time can damage it beyond repair. There are a few exceptions to the damage created when crossing into another reality, us for instance, we’re joined in the mind and soul but we don’t actually physically go to each other’s planes of existence. Sometimes it's kind of like…he tried to think of a comparable ideology and plucked the word destiny from Greg2’s mind. It wasn’t quite right but some people were meant to be where they ended up, even if it was on another planet.

Greg2 needed more information so Greg1 attempted to share what he’d learned. He tried to say Doctor Hooper’s name but it didn’t quite translate out loud. Dyerkter Moalai Hyoopyer was the best he could manage. Names were always difficult. Instead, he projected the image of Doctor Hooper he’d examined before crossing. She was small, neat, a little startled looking, but otherwise exuded a gentleness of spirit that both Lestrades could almost see. If this woman had done something there was a very good reason for it, and it was up to them to see what that was. The other? Greg2 asked and was unable to grasp the basic concept that Greg1 tried to impress upon his mind. A living machine. A cyborg. A clumsy mechanoid-looking creature, appeared in Greg2’s mind but Greg1 dismissed it and tried to further explain self-healing artificial flesh, custom-made body parts, and biological yet programmable beings that now graced many levels of society and only became more advanced with each generation. It wasn’t much but it was all Greg1 could do.

There were no leads at the site though Lestrade could clearly see egress marks on the brick wall. No one else understood what they were looking at but if you did know, you’d be able to pick out the stress marks on the building where all the molecules had been shifted the tiniest amount to allow two grown bodies to push through. Other than that there was nothing. Doctor Hooper and the blank had made a clean get-away. Greg2 gave the impression of a small screen and prompted their shared body into checking into their information exchange system. Greg1 was horrified to see that every meter of the street was being recorded at all hours of the day and night. _People allowed_ _this?_ Greg2 felt vindicated when they clearly witnessed the back of a dark-haired woman walk around a corner. They didn’t catch her face, or that of the person she was wheeling down the street, “That’s in Central London. They could go anywhere from there.” Donovan said out loud. “Where do we begin?” That was the first day.

 


	2. Organisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is unique, and more unusual than a casual glance can ever reveal.

Similarities can be great or small. Differences can be examined in microscopic or macroscopic ways. Little differences can be ignored or overlooked. Larger ones have greater impact and are more difficult to dismiss. Sometimes, though, you simply can’t stand far enough away to see the big picture, as it were. In one place, someone succeeded, ending a life where it should have continued. In another place, someone succeeded as well,  _ creating  _ a  life where none should have been possible. Each thing was a necessary part of the greater story, a vital part of what was to come but until that moment, existence continued, unremarkable in its own way, yet miraculous in another.

There was no part of Sherlock’s life where he recalled feeling  _ free _ . He’d been kept in his nursery long after he had need of it, and then to his suite of rooms for many years more. In those years had been an interchangeable quantity of nursemaids and minders, but not a single glimpse of his family with the exception of one, his older brother Mycroft. Ginger, plump, and imperious, he was many years older than Sherlock, practically an adult by the time he was nine, his orders given in a clear firm voice, “Keep him occupied.” Sherlock was. He was surrounded by toys and games, puzzles and challenges, music and art, as well as books, maps, and every kind of thing that he might find intriguing. 

It was from his readings that he eventually learned that there was likely  _ more _ to his family, parents perhaps, or even other siblings, but all he knew was Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t even know the people who looked after him each day. None of them was present more than a month at a time it seemed, and he’d long since become accustomed to referring to people by their job rather than their name.  _ Nanny  _ was replaced by  _ Teacher _ , and  _ Teacher  _ by  _ Master _ , and so forth. All young Sherlock knew was the inside walls of his rooms, and he ached with the understanding that there was a whole wide world on the other side of those same walls, and that he wanted to experience it in person.

He longed to escape. Sherlock knew he was gifted with genius. Many of the temporary persons who had passed through his life had specialised in managing higher level acumen. They’d told him many things, answering his questions without hedging, or even using small words. They knew he was a Holmes, and therefore their intellectual superior despite his age. There was no need to talk down a Holmes, even when they were only five, or seven, or nine, and then, eventually into double digits at last. Sherlock Holmes knew who he was with a certainty that was unwavering.

Mycroft grew taller and more severe with each passing month, his soft babyish body long since turning into a long lean man, though careful tailoring was required to disguise an ever-soft abdomen. While he made sure that his baby brother’s every need was seen to, he didn’t have much time to spend with Sherlock because of his own education and then his new job, but that was best. By then Sherlock had learned that their parents had passed away in a transit accident when he had been barely a toddler, or so he had been told. 

His brother might have resented having to care for an endlessly needy little brother, but clearly had been trained since his own birth to assume responsibility for his kith and kin. His intelligence was greater than Sherlock’s but his skills were yet untempered by time, and their interactions grew antagonistic. Neither brother had ever managed to have a conversation that could be termed as  _ pleasant _ . Sherlock knew it was Mycroft who kept him inside the manor and argued for his freedom regularly, “It isn’t safe, you’ve been told this many times. If you are bored, merely tell me what you want, and I will obtain it for you.”

Petulantly, Sherlock demanded research equipment, the best available. If he’d thought the costs would be prohibitive, he soon learned his mistake. Mycroft didn’t even blink, “We will convert the old nursery into a laboratory for you.” It was done. Sherlock was thrilled with his new play area and spent two tranquil years mastering it all. Formulas were soothing and beautiful, logical and captivating. There was endless diversity in it all, and he was riveted, desiring to know all he could learn.

It was during this idle and almost peaceful time that Sherlock happened across a bit of data that had answered all his questions regarding his obvious containment. A medical report, discrete and professional, outlined a variety of symptoms he recognised as his own. The document was an amalgam of test results, and they painted a very clear picture of Patient Holmes – _high-functioning sociopath. Genetic ban in place_. It made so much sense to him. _This was why he was kept from other people, taught so carefully, drilled so rigorously. This was why he couldn’t manage the house by touch, and that everyone except he could range wherever they pleased, but he was not allowed._ _He was sociopathic, but with the right training, he could pass for normal. This was why Mycroft kept changing the staff so frequently, this was why Sherlock had long since lost the desire to ask for affection as he’d once done as a very small child. He didn’t need it. His body was well-cared for and his mind was educated and fine-tuned._

It was enough for now, and Sherlock felt at ease with his surroundings for the first time in his life. He stopped wishing for friends. He stopped longing to run away. He stopped wondering about the outside world. He turned his interests towards science and music, amusing himself with old fashioned chemistry as well as jotting down simple compositions. Eventually, though,  _ hormones _ reminded Sherlock of the freedom he’d once dreamed of and began to dream of it again. Desire made itself known, but it wasn’t for pleasure, it was to sate his curiosity. Social dynamics were a necessary part of human interaction.  _ If he was to overcome his sociopathic tendencies, he would need to learn to fit in somehow, and that meant being part of the culture du jour _ . 

Sherlock had read about drug dens and of being chemically altered. It would allow for psychotropic introspection, a look inside himself from a different perspective, and something he couldn’t do while supervised at home. He grew restless knowing that others got to enjoy what he was denied. It was a common pastime among youth, an age group he could now count himself a member of.  _ He was old enough. Fifteen was practically in his majority, and no one, not even Mycroft, was going to keep him inside anymore _ . Sherlock planned it all out. His studies had given him the knowledge to do now what his young self had been incapable of managing.

He considered every factor. The night staff was small, and security included ‘grams being streamed and captured so that his person was always tracked. It was a puzzle but not impossible to solve. Sherlock broke into the ether and reprogrammed the streams to manifest a simulacrum of himself. He set it to last for his entire sleep cycle of eight hours, a regime to be initiated as soon as he was able to figure out how to actually leave the manor. The doors were made of the newest high-tensile material, the doors set with bio-locks which were easy to manage, but only if you had the correct DNA. He already knew that his was proscribed, but that was just another puzzle to solve, and he loved puzzles. 

Sherlock considered it. The interior doors had practically prehistoric  _ mechanical  _ locks on them, a cinch to pick through once the proper research was undertaken. With a newly created set of angled pins, he let himself into Mycroft’s suite for the first time. It was even more boring than he’d imagined. Mycroft had nothing in his rooms except information screens, a large bed, and an enormous wardrobe.  _ Dull _ . Ignoring his surroundings, he got right to the task at hand, stealing several genetic samples from his brother’s bedroom and cleansing areas.

It took only two weeks to grow artificial flesh imbued with Mycroft’s DNA. It was with no small amount of triumph that the young man used the finger he had produced to unlock every exterior door whenever he wanted and used his new access pass to get into the living room. The manor was semi-sentient, as were all the higher-grade domiciles, and the organic bond it had with Mycroft was infallible  _ in normal circumstances _ . Sherlock reprogrammed several security features to activate at night and, before he could be missed for real, crept back to his rooms to pretend he had never once left them.

Sherlock ran away from home the very first night the circumstances allowed for it. He walked the streets and knew he was in London. He learned all that he could, absorbing concepts like public dining, mass transportation, and human diversity with alacrity. It was thrilling. Even with the air scrubbers cleansing out toxins and pollutants, there was still a  _ smell _ to it, and Sherlock realised that he was breathing in  _ nature _ . The parks were filled with biologics of all forms, from densely matted grasses to tall soaring trees. Water features supported simple eco- webs, all mutually supportable within the careful design of the park. It looked organic, but then, everything did. Unlike the interior of his ancient home, the London he was seeing was bereft of straight lines or hard edges. It was green and lush and filled with so much humanity that it seemed ready to burst. He loved it.

Sherlock knew that every flower rooted itself deep in the dirt, so with carefree abandon, he searched for it. Hours later he was standing in a murky alley, blissfully unaware of the secret eyes that followed him. There were many boys his age in this area, all of them with feral gazes, and lithe taut bodies. Sherlock wasn’t worried. Many of his lessons had involved ancient arts including almost forgotten things like  _ battle _ , and his own body was strong and limber. An altercation wouldn’t likely end well for an opponent, especially one of these. His arrogance was nearly palpable and the other boys let him walk.

Sherlock knew someone somewhere would be able to give him what he’d been seeking. He’d read about it, had seen streams that spoke righteously against it, and he wanted to understand what the fuss was about. Now that he was in the correct part of Town, making a connection was no harder than merely standing still and allowing himself to be approached by the several older gentlemen who prowled up and down those same streets, their gaze as hungry as the boys they looked over. Every single approach was for sex, hungry eyes staring at his mouth or leering at his arse. Sherlock refused request after request for physical penetration. Sherlock wasn’t interested in copulation for pleasure or profit so he turned them all away. The dangerous looking boys closest to him relaxed, realising he wasn’t there to poach their potential income from them. Finally, someone made their way to him, “I know what you need.”

“Truly?” Sherlock was sceptical but kept his smile open and alluring, “What is it that I fancy?”

The man was shorter than Sherlock but older, nearly Mycroft’s age, and dressed the same as many around them. His eyes were dark and piercing, his brows thin and seemed professionally shaped. His hair was rumpled but so gleaming and perfectly trimmed that Sherlock knew that he was with a dissembler. This man presented himself as lacking in fortune but it was a lie. His hands were perfectly groomed, and his skin was as fresh and milky as Sherlock’s. The boys and other men on the street were harder, dirtier, rougher. “Escape.” The man breathed the word out like it was a treasure, and it was. Sherlock’s attention was caught, “I can help you make the entire world disappear. You can be wherever you want, doing whatever you want, for a while, at least.”

_ Finally! _ Sherlock stepped closer, “William.” He introduced himself. He wasn’t exactly fibbing, he was indeed using his name, just not one of his frequently uttered ones.

“Jimmy.”  _ Lie? Likely and irrelevant, though.  _ Criminals had a high percentage of alternate personas they utilised to prevent their crimes from marring their real lives. Sherlock expected it from a drug dealer. The small man smiled and Sherlock was reminded of some of the biologics he’d seen in the water, “Let me give you a taste.” He dug out an injector from his pocket, “Won’t leave a trace mark. The compound is benign. It will make you feel…good…for a long time.” Jimmy led him inside a building. There were mats and blankets strewn everywhere, bodies laid out, passive and silent, “They’re okay. This is all that happens on the outside.  _ Inside _ you will see so many amazing things.”

Sherlock let himself be laid out on his own bit of fabric, noting that there were watchers by the exits. He realised they were watching over the sleepers, ensure their safety, making sure they remained unmolested during their session.  _ Sex was bought and paid for on these streets, no one got it for free. _ Sherlock decided then and there never to use it as currency, “I will not be touched.”

“No. You won’t have to worry about that,” promised Jimmy, “Enjoy your departure. Pay what you like when you are done.” Sherlock had read about this too. Purveyors were required to offer one free sample of their wares or suffer the threat of law.  _ Freedom of choice _ was paramount when everything imaginable was for sale, so denying patrons their desires was never an issue as long as it did not infringe on the rights of others. Prostitutes were legally protected, agreeing in advance to sexual acts, and anyone who helped themselves to someone else was severely as well as swiftly punished. Sherlock  _ wasn’t  _ selling himself, so no one had the right to invade his body, even when he was unconscious, not unless they were medical personnel, and only in the line of duty.

The sample was filled with bliss.  _ Sherlock forgot where he was, forgot he was laying on a dirty carpet in a seedy compound filled with strangers. He forgot being confined to his rooms. He forgot Mycroft and he forgot how lonely he felt all the time. He felt nice, content, warm, and secure _ . It was gorgeous, and he didn’t want it to end. Keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock lay on the blanket and didn’t move a muscle for hours. When dawn arrived he woke fully. A smile was on his face as he made his way home, easily creeping back to his rooms after resetting the systems with his home-grown key. Placing it back into it’s gro-tube, Sherlock went on to spend the day as he’d had so many previously, learning, experimenting, and testing. When he was done, he used it to imprint his own DNA on the exterior, bypassing the need for Mycroft’s unintentional assistance.

A week later he ran away again, and it was as exhilarating as it had been the first time. He found Jimmy and paid him handsomely for a proper dose. The room he was brought to wasn’t as filled as it had been last time so Sherlock chose the most out of the way spot to lay himself down. Jimmy left after seeing the dose administered, and Sherlock spent another wonderful night exploring the worlds he invented inside his mind. Jimmy promised him something new for next time, and a week later Sherlock tried it. It was even better than the first experience. Jimmy promised more, and Sherlock paid in advance.

Jimmy began to meet him in a different building, and it was nicer as well as less populated with users. Now the rooms that Sherlock found himself in had only a dozen or so strangers in it, instead of two or three times that. The floors were a bit cleaner too, but he didn’t care about that, he only cared for the experiences that Jimmy provided him with. Each one sank him deeper and deeper into his mind. Each week seemed to bring revelations about himself, and eagerly Sherlock began to increase a number of times he ran away from home.It was risky, being caught became a near certainty, but how could he resist? Jimmy was always excited to see him and seemed to find Sherlock very appealing but the young man wasn’t so naïve as to give a purveyor any rights to his flesh, “No sex.” He reminded the man before each session, “Not ever.”

“I’d never.” Jimmy would roll his eyes and smile cattily, “I give you my word. I’m no villain.”  _ Except he was.  _ Of all the lies Jimmy had told, this was clearly the biggest but it wasn’t Sherlock’s concern.  _ Tonight was for something new, Jimmy had promised an even deeper sleep, and the watchers were at the door _ . Sherlock wanted it, needed it. Eagerly he took in the offering, not thinking twice about being led to a room alone, or of how there was an actual mattress beneath him, or noticing that there was no one at the door or even beyond it. He was alone with the dealer. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut before he could witness the hunger in Jimmy’s face or the way Jimmy palmed himself as the drug took hold. Sherlock didn’t care any longer. He was gone, drifting, soaring, dreaming.

When Sherlock woke he felt a bit different but he couldn’t fathom how. He just felt  _ different _ . He wasn’t sure if it was simply a matter of physical after-effects of the compounds he allowed into his body or signs that something more was happening. It had been some time now; he’d gradually become aware that something  _ was _ different but he couldn’t say what it was. It was the only word he could manage to apply, and it kept him distracted. He could smell Jimmy and the room on his clothes, but it only served as a reminder to sanitise them as per usual before he went to bed. Lost in thought and indifferent to his surroundings, Sherlock made his way along a well-memorized path that avoided any major concentrations of people until he was close to the Cube. Cubes could transport you anywhere, and there was one near Holmes Manor that he could sneak away from in order to get home. Sherlock’s hips felt odd, and he was preoccupied with cataloguing his physical well-being and cross-referencing his vitals with a mental database he’d put together concerning all his Jimmy related experiences. He was so involved that he didn’t take proper note of the female who walked briskly up to him, nor did he react in time to block the blow she struck. Darkness overwhelmed him and then…nothing.

Opening his eyes, he saw a bright-haired female wearing disposable surgical wraps. Ears ringing, he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, though her mouth was rounded and stretched in an unflattering fashion. Sherlock suddenly realised that she was screaming at him, her words being spit out with such fury that he could barely make them out. He’d never personally witnessed someone losing their temper before, and it was fascinating. Suddenly, like a roar, a string of sounds made it through and his denial was instantaneous.  _ No. This could not be true! No. The assurances had been made. His body was supposed to be inviolate!  _ Her conviction convinced him. She must have witnessed it.  _ He’d been betrayed just as she had _ . Her reaction was violent and unexpected. Darkness overcame him once more.

Pain.

There was a great deal of pain.

His tongue felt strange.  _ Swollen?  _ Sherlock tried to move it and to his horror, he realised that it was gone. The female was still muttering to herself, her fury palpable. Horror and fear filled him.  _ Here was the danger Mycroft had tried to protect him from. Here was the very thing that he’d been carefully sheltered against. _ Sherlock would have howled in a panic of laughter if he’d still possessed a tongue. The woman was laying out actual tools. He’d only seen such devices in historicals, and never in person. All surgeries, such as they were, were done using MedUnits. Sherlock took in his surroundings. He was in an operating dome. Terror raged through him.  _ The woman had cut out his tongue after telling him he’d been raped by Jimmy who apparently was her husband, and now…she…was…now she was…no…no…no…NO! _

You didn’t need a tongue to scream. Sherlock could verify this as fact now. The female was devastatingly skilled and brilliantly talented. Had he been in any other position, Sherlock would have been impressed. As it was, he screamed and screamed and screamed until the darkness took him once more time, and this time, he hung onto it desperately.

A million years went by. He felt…different. It was a _different_ different than he’d felt before. The pain was gone, even the memory of it blurred. He tried to blink but he could not. He tried to panic but he could not. His body was still and unresponsive. He could hear someone, someone breathing hard in his left ear, “Shh…shh…stay quiet. I’ll explain everything, just be quiet for ten more minutes and we’ll be safe.” _Safe? What did this woman mean?_ _Woman. Was it a woman who spoke to him? How did he know this?_ His senses seemed to be getting stronger. His mind automatically catalogued and compared the differences in scent, attitude, tone, and between the individual beside him and the one who had hurt him so dreadfully. Relief filled him when his process completed a moment later. _She was different than the bright-haired one. This woman was soft and gentle, and timid_. He managed to open his eyes and realised that they were moving, “We’re here. Please. Hold on. Quiet. We’re so close.”

Sherlock saw a grey haze in front of him. His eyes opened wide of their own accord, attempting to focus on it, and then the haze was sliding over him, enveloping him, swallowing him up, and it wasn’t like the darkness. This was thick and sticky and oddly shining too. He felt himself twisting and bending but inside somehow, collapsing into himself a trillion times over as he was turned inside out and made right again, but the wrong way around. All of it stopped within a heartbeat and suddenly Sherlock noticed that the air was very cool and quite damp. All light seemed to be coming from tall trees with round glowing fruit on them. Geometric shapes stretched out in straight lines all around him, going up and down and side to side and it was dizzying. He tried to speak and managed a single word, “Where?”

“Earth. It’s called  _ earth _ . She can’t find us here, not ever. We’re both safe here. I’m going to help you somehow…I don’t know in what way, but I can…I don’t know. Look, I’m Molly.” Molly was making both of them move, and Sherlock realised that some of the geometric shapes were walkways made of some kind of hard material. He was seated in something that was mobile, and he finally noted the large wheels near his arms. A chair. He blinked and looked around again. Everything seemed grey or vaguely reddish, it was difficult to make out things for some reason, “You’re probably filled with questions. Okay…um…well, I don’t even know how to begin honestly. We’re strangers to this place, but it will find a way to make us fit, that’s how it works...I think.” The woman sounded unsure suddenly.

“What am I?” Making his mouth form words took effort. Making his thoughts into words took effort. He  _ knew _ his name was Sherlock Holmes. All other data was white noise that refused to coalesce into anything he could understand. It seemed to be caught in some kind of loop but for some reason, it did not distress him to be missing all of his memories. It seemed comforting instead though it was bothersome to not be able to move.

“You’re a…well…you’re a ****.” Molly clearly tried to say a word but couldn’t manage. She cleared her throat and tried again, “You’re a ******.” Her voice warbled and their movement stopped. She stepped around and he got a look at her for the first time. A deep breath was followed by carefully enunciated words, “My name is Doctor Molly Hooper, and you are a cyborg.” Her brows knitted as if she’d misspoken, “That’s odd. I can hear what I’m saying but it isn’t quite right. It says what I mean but not enough…there is a different word…” she trailed off in growing confusion.

“Where are we?” He didn’t recognise anything around him. Everything was alien and bizarre. Inside he knew he should feel more disturbed but instead he just calmly began trying to break down the input into understandable parameters.

Molly looked uncomfortable. “An alternate reality?” She seemed even more unsure. “I took us through a *****.” She frowned again, “Odd,” she said again, “I know this word but it seems to be fading away.” She looked confused, “I am Doctor Molly Hooper and I took you through…a…door?” She still sounded uncertain.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock was concerned.  _ He was in the middle of a place he didn’t understand with a woman he didn’t know, and he apparently needed to be wheeled around _ . He noted that he wasn’t wearing his clothing and that the cloth he was draped in was about to fall off. He couldn’t move his arm to stop it. People were looking at them, and Molly seemed to snap out of her confused state, “Molly?”

“We’ve got to keep moving.” She stated firmly, “We have to find a place to settle in, and begin new.” She took him to a place that seemed to have food. Leaving him at the booth nearest the street, Molly went to clean herself up. She was gone a very long time. He was pleased to be able to wiggle his toes now and shrug his shoulders a bit. Sherlock blinked several times and began to catalogue all the data he could discern. It wasn’t much. Consumables were dispensed in this room. Individuals politely averted their eyes past Sherlock and took their orders away with them. He sat and waited. When Molly came back out, Sherlock noticed that she seemed even more confused than ever.  _ Had the door they’d gone through was impacting their ability to cogitate? _ His theory was confirmed when she gave him a distant nod right before walked through the door and away.  _ Molly had not recognised him _ . Sherlock sat some more and wondered if she would come back but the longer she was gone the less it troubled him until he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to be troubled at all.

Sherlock sat there and didn’t know what to do. He knew who he was but also knew that he wasn’t correct. He felt strange, and his mind latched onto a word that seemed very important.  _ Cyborg _ . He understood that a cyborg was a combination of advanced technology and human tissue. He was not human. He was a machine.  _ Well, that made sense, especially considering that his hands appeared to be made from a dark metal. The rest of him seemed human enough, a fact he was able to determine because so much of it was exposed and he could see his reflection in the surface next to him _ . 

A moment later, the door opened and an age-worn woman walked in. She chatted with someone at the counter before noticing Sherlock just sitting there. She looked concerned when she clearly realised that he was unclothed as well as unattended. “Are you alone dear?” She asked, obviously confirming what she already suspected. Sherlock nodded. “Do you need help?” Sherlock nodded again.  _ Assistance would be advantageous.  _ “Do you have someone I can call?” Sherlock shook his head.  _ He knew no one, no one at all, not even himself. _ “Do you need a doctor?” Sherlock shook his head again. _ Cyborgs did not require medical intervention.  _ “Can you speak?”

“Yes.” Everything he’d been listening to coalesced in his mind as the sounds he’d been unconsciously taking in matched themselves to the concepts he already knew. A massive vocabulary was poised for his use on the tip of his tongue, manifesting suddenly as though it had always been there. Sherlock felt his entire body tingling and understood that it was coming online in stages. He reasoned that it would take several hours before he would be able to use it as it was designed to be used. He wasn’t sure how he knew what he knew about himself, but a list of options and capabilities seemed to hover in the back of his brain like a dimly glowing list.  _ He’d go over it later when his transport was in a more secure situation _ .

“Hello there, I’m Mrs. Hudson, I live right here in this building.” Factors fell together as he took in details about her.  _ She was safe. Secure. Home. Caring. Nurturing. Safe. Safe. Safe. _

“I am Sherlock.”  _ Establish contact. Make social connections _ .

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson was smiling warmly, and so he made further efforts to put the chaos in his mind in order of use.

“Sherlock…Holmes.” The name came easily to his lips and he couldn’t recall sending it there. “I am Sherlock Holmes and I am not from  _ this  _ reality. I am a cyborg. I believe I was abandoned here. I do not know why. I do not know where I am. I do not know what to do. I am alone.” He made his statements dispassionately.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to melt while still standing up, “You poor dear. A cyborg you say? Well, if that isn’t just the most…well, we get all sorts around here. I can’t just leave you here in Mr. Chattergee’s window-seat!” The same Mr. Chattergee was very willing to help wheel Sherlock into Mrs. Hudson’s flat where she provided Sherlock with his very first cup of tea. It was delicious, soothing, warm, and very welcome. She gave him something called a biscuit, and Sherlock was amazed. It was so sweet and crumbly, he knew he’d never experienced anything like it in his existence, what existence he could recall. Everything seemed to begin with the grey haze. “Can you walk? Are you damaged?”

Sherlock considered it. He had attempted nothing and that struck him as unnatural.  _ Was he the sort of thing that didn’t even try? He seemed to be able to think his own thoughts, could he do what he wished before he was asked to do so? _ He wiggled a foot which now moved obligingly and set the obedient part onto the cool floor. He followed it with the other and then pushed himself upward. Standing was easy, though it made his sheet fall off. The flat was warm, but he noticed his exterior covering pebble a bit, “Oh my!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. She left Sherlock standing there for several minutes while she retreated to another room, “My neighbour and I take in gently used clothing to repair and donate to homeless shelters. It’s for the needy, and I’d say right now that you qualify.” She had a large stack of trousers and shirts, quickly teaching Sherlock how to put them on and take them off until they found several items that fit his long lean body well. He felt better once he was covered up, and noticed that he’d already cobbled together coverings that coordinated well with one another.

That was the beginning of his new life. Through Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock learned how to dress, how to use colloquialisms when he spoke to locals, how to operate the rudimentary technology that was available, and how to simply exist in this primitive new world. Everything was slow, clunky, noisy, and filled with flaws. It was amazing.  _ This _ London took his breath away, had he needed to breathe. Humans were so strange and so very different. They couldn’t be easily categorised, and even their physicality was made of so many variable characteristics that Sherlock had to build an internal mental structure simply to help him sort and appropriately apply all the data he was accumulating. He decided to name it after a construct he’d heard of,  _ a mind palace _ . It seemed to suit and was very useful.

Mrs. Hudson was useful too. She didn’t seem to be very bothered by his lack of humanity, and the more he got to know her, the more he realised how unusual she was. Mrs. Hudson seemed free of any kind of prejudice or judgement about people or things, she had a deeply entrenched  _ live and let live _ attitude. He also learned that her sort of open-mindedness was rare and precious. Several of his new acquaintances were less than welcoming even without being aware of his artificial status, in fact, it was safe to say that Sherlock made people uncomfortable, and even angry. The very first time he solved a case, it was almost entirely by accident, but it helped secure his position in the neighbourhood as something tolerable and even acceptable.

A local cable company had been providing service to dozens of units up and down Baker Street. Sherlock observed a growing wave of discontent as fees rose higher and higher due to over-usage of the service, and customers did their best to scale back how long they were on their home telephones, or even on what was locally called  _ the internet _ . A little investigating taught Sherlock that the company in question was deliberately over-billing its customers, all in tiny amounts, but when added together, ended up being a monthly cash cow that they were milking with greater and greater enthusiasm. With his unparalleled technical skills, Sherlock managed to reduce the over-billing across the board and even increase the amount of access each customer had with no-one at the company any wiser of his actions. It was greatly appreciated by the many residents who already struggled with astronomical rents, expensive foodstuffs, and the various aspects of city life that made earning your way an urgent thing. He followed this success with others, slowing helping the entire neighbourhood out until he was accepted as one of their own.

No one made mention of his crude facial features or his unfinished hands. Mrs. Hudson gave him fine leather gloves to wear over them, and he learned to slip them on whenever he was going to go out, completing his look with a long dark-blue scarf that he kept about his neck. Sherlock knew his transport was adjusting on a daily basis to help him fit in more. His hair had grown out and was dark, curly, and unruly. Once it reached a few centimetres in length, it stopped growing but stayed lush and shining. He had facial hair, sort of. It didn’t grow out but there was a definite shadow if you looked closely enough, and it made him appear freshly shaven even though a razor had never once touched his skin. His chest had pushed out a fitful sprinkling of hairs but had apparently given up. He was fairly sure more would come in later, but if it didn’t it wasn’t important enough to be fussed about.

He walked the streets when others were asleep, studying and analysing his new world, taking in information about it in vast quantities. It seemed crucial to observe everything, to learn as much as he could about his surroundings. Study took up all his spare time, and he had a lot of it. His transport needed only two hours of repose a week in order to recharge, and his organic components thrived on a high intake of sweets. Mrs. Hudson was very pleased to make a wide variety of offerings, though he didn’t need to consume much. After the first week, Sherlock found that he could subsist on sweet milky tea, which he quite enjoyed, and the odd biscuit. He originally ate several meals with Mrs. Hudson but stopped after he learned that his transport was physically capable of expelling solid waste just like a regular person. Needing Mrs. Hudson take him through potty training was not amusing, even though she was as pleasant and sweet as she’d ever been, and he vowed to keep  _ that _ particular requirement to a minimum.

Sherlock was bored most of the time. It took ages to acquire information. Even the internet was slow compared to…to…he wasn’t sure to what, but he was certain there had been another  _ better _ way to access data. He resorted to reading  _ hard copies _ , and it was ponderous. His memories were solidifying too, details making themselves known, things like the fact that he enjoyed nicotine a huge amount, and that street-grade narcotics affected him just as much as they did people, or that his strange diet caused him to smell flowery and spicy at the same time. He also discovered that the covering of his transport had modified itself to give him moles and wrinkles, small disfigurements, and even textures. 

He still had access hatches on his ribcage, abdomen, thighs, and calves but they were almost impossible to see. Pressing on barely invisible lines allowed him to open his own body up to look inside. It felt strange to touch his own insides, so after examining as much as he could, he sealed himself closed and didn’t bother again. His body continued to alter itself in tiny ways. His once perfectly uniform teeth were now a tiny bit crooked, and the blue-gray of his eyes had shifted to dominant blue, with green undertones, but with amber splashes. He decided it was a minor coding defect and didn’t concern himself. 

He had as many unique qualities as he had normal ones. His body hair was negligible, thin patches beneath his arms, and around his penis. A bit of research on common human features taught him that he was well within the normal spectrum, except his phallus, which was oddly small for his overall dimensions. Sherlock decided it also didn’t matter. No one would ever see him naked. His hands stubbornly refused to transmit data, there was no flesh on them still so he couldn’t feel with his fingertips, nor determine anything a normal human could via touch. A bit of careful measuring showed him that his wrist bones had grown a millimetre more flesh since he’d awoken at Speedy’s.

His memories came to him in gushes and spurts. One day he was sitting in his chair at 221 B Baker Street when a stream of information loosed inside his mind palace. Suddenly Sherlock knew that his transport had been specifically designed to engage in sexual activities. _Why? Why would someone design an artificial unit to copulate with, and in such diverse and somewhat bizarre ways?_ _He seemed capable of nearly any sex act imaginable, and a few things that an actual human would suffer dearly in doing._ Like so many questions, he had to set it aside to match with an answer at some future point. _Perhaps he could use his transport to earn currency?_ Sherlock made a mental note to look into it, deciding that trading use of his well-programmed artificial body would be acceptable if it helped him earn his way in this world.

Sherlock met a man named Gregory Lestrade. DI Lestrade had given Sherlock a long piercing looking over, listening carefully to the cyborg explain how he’d gotten his investigation slightly wrong, and that the suspect they were about to arrest was the incorrect one. “The gradient of the street he was found on should have resulted in a blood-trail but there isn’t one. He wasn’t killed here. This is a staged scene, and this individual was terminated elsewhere.” It seemed perfectly obvious to him but everyone else on scene looked entirely surprised. He emulated an impatient sigh and walked the DI through the scene, pointing out previous rain levels, the current humidity, reminded him of the average blood volume of a human being of the deceased’s height and weight, and gave a disturbingly accurate account of visible blood loss.

One of the officers stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded at first, and then angry, “He’s the bloody killer!” He made a motion toward another officer who began to approach Sherlock as if to arrest him.

The DI stepped in to intervene, “Can you provide proof of your whereabouts during the approximate time of the murder?” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, collated the requested data, and answered to the best of his knowledge. “Stop, stop, I believe you.” DI Lestrade didn’t seem to want to know how many minutes Sherlock had spent evacuating his artificial bowel after lunch with Mrs. Hudson, and then tea with Mrs. Hudson as well as her best friend and rival, Mrs. Turner, the lady who managed the neighbouring set off flats. “So, how to we reach your housekeeper?”

“She’s not my housekeeper.”  Mrs. Hudson was adamant about being referred to as a landlady even if she cleaned constantly, and even baked special fancy cookies for Sherlock to try. He made sure to abide by her wishes as much as possible as payment for the impossible to meet the debt of her endless hospitality. The more he existed in London, the rarer he knew Mrs. Hudson was. Not everyone would have helped a complete and frankly alien stranger so readily, but she was brave and loving in equal measure.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade checked his notes again. Sherlock was annoyed to see the man had actually written things down using a biro!  _ Why not chip some symbols into a stone tablet while he was at it? _ Sherlock was constantly astonished at the vast amount of information that human beings were capable of ignoring even though their bodies were designed to measure and respond to it all, even better than his own finely designed vehicle.  _ Their brains were massive for their body size. Surely there was room in there to remember slight details such as the address of a rather saucy old lady in Central London without needing to kill a tree to do so? _ Sherlock wondered why  _ that _ particular detail dismayed him so much. Litter and waste were a constant part of the human existence but it troubled him deeply as if there were some simple way of dealing with it all but no one at all could quite recall how, not even him. Knowing that he knew something and couldn’t recall it bothered Sherlock a tremendous amount. He took great care in arranging his memories, adapting his primitive  _ mind palace _ to sort and store details for long term usage. He gave her mobile number again, rolling his eyes and he slowly dictated the digits, and then sighed impatiently as the DI made the call.

Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson as plainly as if she were standing directly in front of him. His hearing was far better than humans so it was no trouble at all to shameless eavesdrop on the private conversation the DI was attempting to make as he stepped sharply away and down the block, “Sherlock? Is he alright? He’s always poking his nose into situations, he’s so curious! Are you the police? It must be a case then, has Sherlock solved it for you? Tell him we need milk if he’s going by the shops on the way home.” Sherlock scowled, knowing Mrs. Hudson  _ knew  _ he could hear her. He hated going to the shops. They were tedious but necessary for her continued survival. She needed milk for tea and cakes, so milk he would get even if it ate up an unnecessary amount of time out to do. Lestrade asked her a few key questions, and Mrs. Hudson answered all of them with alacrity, proving without a doubt that Sherlock had been at 221 B Baker Street during all possible times when the assault could have occurred. The silver haired man ended the call and just looked at Sherlock for a minute in silence, “She needs you to get milk.”

“Alright.” Sherlock wasn’t normally so agreeable but he had done the calculations necessary to determine that politeness would get him free faster than any other potential attitude. As usual, he was correct, and the DI waved him on. Sherlock strode away, his mind churning with ideas. He had enjoyed solving the crime, it had been so easy.  _ All the facts were just laying there, waiting to be seen and read, and he could do that! He could solve crimes for a living _ . Quickly his mind chewed through the needs and requirements necessary to fulfil such a goal.  _ He needed a marketable address, and possibly an assistant. _ Mrs. Hudson was lovely and perfect but also aged  _ and _ she had a hip. As much as she would likely love to run about London defeating criminals, she wasn’t physically able to. She needed money as well, her hip was getting worse and worse, and though she denied it, Sherlock knew she needed other minor surgeries in order to improve her transport which was wearing out.

He needed to think, to plan, and to organise himself. Taking himself away, Sherlock went to Speedy’s where Mr. Chattergee fondly allowed him to use an entire booth for himself. Sherlock had saved Mr. Chattergee money several different ways, and part of the proprietor’s gratitude was shown in the form of endless tolerance for Sherlock’s silent presence.  _ He could charge people for similar services! Why, even modest fees would garner a more than generous monthly allocation of funds to go with the financial gifts he’d already received. He kept it all in a shoe box beneath the bed he never slept in _ . He wanted to give it to Mrs. Hudson but lacked a legitimate way to do so that would not cause her legal entanglements.

Sherlock arranged his transport into a comfortable pose and then tuned out, losing himself inside his head, working through all the details he’d learned today and filing it all away in its relevant locations. It would take some time, but he was freshly recharged, and ready to go for days. If Mrs. Hudson wanted him, she knew where he would be. Her relationship with Mr. Chattergee was mysterious but apparently mutually satisfying. They kept each other in touch with things, especially things like Sherlock. On standby mode, his transport quieted into near perfect stillness as Sherlock’s eyes automatically locked onto the view a nearby streetlamp post offered, plain and stationary. Sherlock was thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that you are now expecting more chapters than previously. Two details were adjusted and during the review I realized that some of the following chapters were INCREDIBLY HUGE so I halved them for your viewing pleasure.


	3. Command Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson used to be so much. He used to be a surgeon and he used to be a soldier. Now he was lost in London, endlessly searching for something to make his life have meaning once again.

John Hamish Watson was a _former._ He was a _former soldier._ He was a _former doctor_ . He was a _former functional human being_. Now John wasn’t anything he used to be, and it was quite difficult to deal with. For his entire life John was accustomed to balancing the strengths between his mind and body, indulging his need to release the raw physical power that imbued him, or mastering the finicky techniques that had made him one of fastest up-and-coming surgeons of his year. John was as good with a weapon as he was with a scalpel, so serving in the field satisfied him the most. John’s braveness and skills saved many lives, but nearly cost him his own.

He dimly recalled falling to his knees, his eyes no longer capable of focusing on anything after a bullet punched its way through his existence, entering his shoulder but exiting his known reality. John remembered landing face first in the dirt, the uncommon lushness of the lawn a peculiarity in that desert region, but the grounds they were on belonged to some wealthy family or other. John was privileged to die on it, it felt right, like it was something he needed to do, and he was glad to succeed. Somewhere else, a thread snapped. John felt it, and felt pain deeper even than the bullet that had punched a hole through him. _This was it. It was time to die_. He was thankful. _Somehow, it was right for him to die now, he needed to_.

He didn’t though. John survived, and kept surviving. He died on the operating table more than once as other medics stopped the life-blood from pouring from the wound, and he died once more after. A septic fever stilled his heart after he was out of surgery but not permanently. John Watson kept living, and healing, and pushing himself until he’d made it back from the east and into the west where he’d started.

Life was dismal and it irritated him. It was gray, and it seemed to rain all the time. It was aggravating. He couldn’t catch a break, couldn’t find a way to fit back in. Lifts were constantly out of order when he needed them, cabs seldom stopped when he braced his bad arm on his cane in order to use his good arm to try and flag one down.  It was as if the world didn’t want him there, and was trying to continuously encourage him to say his goodbyes. The idea became more palatable as times grew increasingly desperate. The rents were destroying his meagre savings, the weekly rates slowly eating their way through his bankroll. John took the Tube now, or the bus, or in most cases, John just walked. It took forever but he had nothing but time on his hands. Frustration built.

John was lonely. He had no friends, not really. The boys at the VA were good souls, every one of them, but all they did was remind John that he used to feel things, that he used to want things. He didn’t anymore. Something was missing from the world, and it had left him empty and hollow. He was diagnosed with PTSD but therapy wasn’t going well. Ella Thompson did her best to coax John out of his shell, setting him personal improvement goals that he could attain easily enough, even with the smallest effort. Simple things like setting a place for himself for dinner instead of eating right out of the pot just to avoid dishes, or learning to work with the greatly reduced amount of sensitivity and flexibility in his left arm, or just _not dying_.

John Watson was a suicide risk, it said so right there in his file. He’d been reading all his notes from day one. It had taken several sessions before his therapist realised he could understand everything she’d written, even upside down, or even just by how her pen moved. He hadn’t thought of it at first, not seriously at any rate, but suddenly he found himself mentally cataloguing all the various ways he could end his own life. He was a doctor, he had been a soldier, he was familiar both with death and how to improvise what you needed from whatever you had on hand. He could do it and no one could stop him, not really. His therapist knew it too. Ella was careful in how she handled him, never wounding his fragile pride, but pushing him forward no matter how reluctant he was. Walking about London was part of the list of things he was supposed to do, and if it saved him a few pounds in transportation, then all the better.

John drank a lot. He couldn’t afford it but he did it anyway. He wasn’t going to come right out and say he’d become a drunk like his sister, but he did drink every single day, and spent nearly all of his extra cash on alcohol, devolving into cheaper and cheaper brands. Guilt was at least some kind of feeling, and John was so very blank inside. Nothing felt right. Everything was bland and dull and pointless. He didn’t fit in anymore, not in this world. People were filled with such life and he was just hollow. Sometimes he was able to make the emptiness go away, to bring a bit of colour back into his world, if by alternative means.

He was drunk that afternoon, or rather, he’d been drunk for a couple of days, but functionally so. He wasn’t so inebriated that people on the streets felt the need to call the police, but tippled enough to recklessly decide that he needed a lovely bite to eat, and maybe something caffeinated. Mike Stamford said there was a good place around this neighbourhood but John knew that already. He’d spent a lot of time wandering these neighbourhoods, pulled again and again to these same streets for reasons he never questioned. He just felt more comfortable here, at home. He could have wandered anywhere in London, but he kept being pulled to the centre. John staggered around until he finally found the place he’d been searching for. Retrieving the very last of his spare cash from his pocket, John staggered toward the bistro that had pictures of delicious looking sandwiches on the walls. It smelled like decadent coffee too, and he hurried in. Everything about the place told him he’d made a good choice. He was right where he was supposed to be, he knew it.

There was an odd display in the booth that sat against the window that nearly covered the entire front of the building. The proprietor had sat a very elegant and well-made mannequin on the bench seat, the unusual features making it seem _not-quite-human_ since its eyes were a bit oddly tilted, and no one’s mouth was ever that inviting looking, not in real life. John really liked it. It was unusual, and he’d always had a bit of a taste for uncommon things. It looked posh too and a salacious thought about being a bit of rough crossedhis mind and made him tingle a bit in the downstairs department. _He hadn’t felt that in ages._ It was dressed in a long wool coat and had an equally long blue striped scarf looped elegantly around its long neck.

John ordered, then sat himself down in the window booth to examine the mannequin closer. It was male and John decided it had been modelled on someone who probably could be classified as the most legitimately beautiful man alive. Its skin looked dewy and soft, and there were discolorations painted onto it, so perfectly done it looked as if the doll had real freckles and moles. The eyes were staring off at something across the street, jet black curls making a jagged fringe on it’s delicately lined forehead. A jeweller must have been called in to design the eyes. The mannequin’s irises reminded John of opals. He wondered at the brilliance of them for a minute, temporarily startled at how many colors he was noticing, the creams, and the delicate blush of pink, the jewel-like blues and greens, and the rich range of blues, and even dark tones of brown, the entire spectrum that comprised the work of art in front of him. The rest of the world was so dull compared to what he was seeing right now.

John stared openly at the thing as he ate the meal that was delivered. He was still fairly drunk so he didn’t mind if other people wondered why a man would sit and ogle a mannequin whilst chewing on the house special of a _triple-fried egg-chili-and-chutney sandwich_. He was still drunk, still feeling a bit reckless, and now vaguely aware that his thoughts were drifting toward sex-doll territory as he craned his neck a bit to try and look at the doll’s crotch, his brain throwing random messages at his libido. Sure it was male, and John always maintained that he was only interested in women, but the doctor spontaneously made up his mind that shagging something that lovely would be okay and really was kind of sexy to look at. _He wouldn’t mind giving it a try, maybe, just to see what it was like. Lots of people were openly gay, they seemed to love gay sex. He’d always enjoyed being fingered when he was with someone._ _Would a cock be better?_ John wondered about giving versus receiving. He wasn’t really interested in it but at the same time John was a bit curious _. How bad could it be? Anyway, it was just a mannequin, it couldn’t have sex with him even if he climbed aboard right this minute. No harm dreaming, right? It had been ages since sex had happened last, way before he’d been shot. That’s probably why he was finding himself reacting to an inanimate object so strongly._

John wondered some more and suddenly imagined himself kneeling behind someone with flawless pale skin, long firm legs, and a tight sweet little…his imaginations stuttered to a halt, and he gave himself a mental headshake. _He was fantasising about having anal sex with a doll._ At first, he felt ashamed but then the horniest part of his psyche whispered to him, “ _Might be a bit of alright. Perhaps a doll would be able to do what almost no one could and take his cock.”_ Now a twinge of interest was definitely making itself known. John had had many lovers in his life, mostly women, but also a couple of hand-jobs here and there between soldiers. Only a few of the women had been able to accept him, and even they couldn’t manage more than a bit. Men liked to wish for a generous endowment, but as someone who was supposedly _gifted_ , John knew it was an annoyance and an encumbrance more often than it was a thrill. It was no fun making your lover experience pain because your cock was more than they could handle. It was depressing in fact. He wanted someone he could fuck, and fuck _hard_ , but he’d never met even one person who could let him.

It was awkward, but it was what it was. John had instead gotten good at using his mouth and fingers, bringing his partners off multiple times before frotting or wanking himself to completion. Not only was his cock unusually thick, but the uncircumcised head was extremely flared. It did get frustrating on occasion, and extra stress wasn’t something he could handle in the bedroom, that’s why he hadn’t even tried to pull someone since he’d been discharged. _Who would want to have sex after seeing the scars that mangled his skin? Who would want to even try? Who would want to go through the bother except as a curious one-off, just to see if they could manage? It would be empty and meaningless and unsatisfying to boot. A sex doll might just be the answer._ John thought of it further. A doll wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t struggle, wouldn’t hurt after, or leave John feeling guilty rather than satisfied _._ _What would it cost to get one for himself? How lifelike was it?_ John’s inner monologue was interrupted when the mannequin blinked, sat up a bit straighter and scowled at him, “It’s very rude to stare, or so I’ve been informed.”

John dropped the last bite of his sandwich, possibly a good thing since the chilli and chutney had dissolved the last of the bread, providing a convenient opportunity for one of the egg yolks to finally drip right onto the table. “Fucking hell!” Its voice was deep and smooth. It was as if a trigger had flipped in his brain causing John to hear every single letter of every word it had spoken and _felt_ them too. Aural stimuli flooded his mind and nearly overwhelmed him. He was shocked but also a little aroused. His head went a bit swimmy and he blinked a multitude of times.

“It’s also rude to swear, but I suppose one can forgive a soldier for having a naughty mouth.” John didn’t know what was shocking him more, the fact that a mannequin was speaking to him or that it had called him _naughty_ , or that it somehow knew he had been a soldier. John gaped and the mannequin leant forward, its head tilting to one side as it said, “Interesting, you’ve had all but one of your wisdom teeth extracted. That does explain your bite patterns.”

John closed his mouth and swallowed the last of the sandwich in it. _Had it been analysing the way he’d been chewing?_ Belatedly he apologised, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…that is to say, oh hell,” John stalled out for a moment and wondered out loud, “I’m really talking to you, am I? Fuck, I’ve got to stop trying out those bottom-shelf brands.” _He was off his head, clearly, he was._ Everything was too bright suddenly, too colourful, too loud.John could see/hear/smell everything around him, like life had rushed back into the void, allowing John’s observable universe to begin slowly wheeling once again. _Things weren’t translating correctly in his brain, that was it. There was nowhere on earth where he could be talking to a living mannequin in a sandwich shop in central London. There just wasn’t._

“Is the gentleman troubling you, Mr Holmes?” The proprietor had come over, and was discretely eyeing John like he was a suspicious character, “He’s done eating. I can ask him to leave.”

“Thank you Mr Chattergee, it is unnecessary.” _John wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t delusional. He was sitting in a sandwich shop and speaking to a living mannequin._ John’s brain stuttered on for a second or two more before deciding to close up shop for the rest of the day. Days of poor sleep and cheap liquor took advantage of his current state of near malnourishment mixed with the surprised shock of sensory overload and had shut John down. With an inelegant combinations of now flaccid limbs and the accidental knocking over of his gooey sandwich plate, the former doctor managed to fall out of the booth and land face first on the tiled floor, completely unconscious.

John woke after dark. He knew the sun had gone down because he could see out a window, and it was obviously night, at least, the street lights were activated. A bright orange blanket was draped over him. He looked around. He was laying on a small dusty sofa which sat in a room cluttered with books, loose papers, magazines, boxes of dismantled machine parts, and some kind of bovine looking creature’s head which had been nailed to the wall. “It’s a buffalo. I didn’t put it there. I suspect that the landlady has a rather odd sense of humor, but I can’t really judge.” John sat up and stared wildly around, trying to locate the owner of the voice. The mannequin was curled up in a large dark chair, it’s body covered with the same long coat it had been wearing in the sandwich shop. It had gloves on too, and John vaguely recalled noticing them when he was examining it in booth. _Did it feel the chill?_ “I would like you to move in with me.” It stated dispassionately.

John shook his head, trying to wake up, “What?” _Did it just ask him to move in?_ “Wait, who…what are you? Where am I? How did I get here and why on earth would I move in with you? How do you…”

The thing sat up as well, cocking its head and blinking its beautiful eyes. In a bored tone it began to speak, “You are a retired soldier, honorably of course, you live on a pension but merely existing isn’t doing it for you. You’ve lost partial mobility in one arm due to a wound, and your body is overcompensating by causing your brain to believe the injury affects a different limb, hence the cane. You have callus on your hands from regular use of hand weapons, but at the same time your fingers are well-tended. When you were eating you were able to contain all the ingredients of your meal despite the fact that at least three of them were in a fluid state. That speaks of particular dexterity most often found in surgeons, so ex-army doctor, wounded in the line of duty, discharged to live in London. My interest is specifically in your manipulative skills. I desperately would like to make use of it. A military pension will not be sufficient to secure adequate housing, you’re probably living with a relative, or renting one of those mouldy bedsits.” Here the thing stared hard at John, “I need a human flatmate to sign the lease to rent these rooms. Mrs Hudson has been most generous with her home but she has costs to manage, rents are necessary, _tax-deductible_ rents. Move in with me. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I can earn enough money to cover the monthly payments but I have no accounts with which to use it. Move in with me. It will solve both our problems. As added incentive I can offer you a small wage to act as my assistant. I require…”

“What?” John’s head was aching as he cut the thing off mid-sentence. It was already hard to think, “I don’t unders…” he blinked for a second. “What are you?” _It had admitted that it wasn’t human, it couldn’t be._ It was obviously too flawless to be real, it’s body too perfectly sensual, too gorgeously formed to be an actual person. Everyone had some kind of flaw but this…whatever it was…had none that John could yet perceive.

“Cyborg.” The thing blinked at him as John gaped in blatant disbelief, “I know, it doesn’t seem plausible in this timeline, but I can assure you, I _am_ a cyborg. I am a mostly robotic entity that houses a few human organs. I’m not from here, _obviously_ , but since I have nowhere else to go, here I remain.”

“What?” John was annoying himself now. He rephrased, “I have a hangover. It’s giving me a headache, and my stomach is empty. I am having difficulty comprehending things. I need something caffeinated to drink, and something starchy to eat.”

“Ah, yes, food consumption on a regular basis.” The thing sounded annoyed with itself, _“Mrs Hudson!”_ It was shouting, and John clapped his hands over his ears to protect himself, “He’s _finally_ awake!” John was completely discombobulated. He really was _very_ hung-over, and couldn’t quite trust the information his senses were delivering to him.

A small elderly woman showed up only a couple of minutes later, “I can hear you perfectly well, Sherlock, no need to be so loud.” Her voice was chiding but fond, and she moved gracefully even though she was carrying a rather large tray. She beamed at John, “Your young man looks a bit peaky, he needs some food.”

“I am aware Mrs Hudson, hence my call, and he’s not mine, yet.” She tutted at him and raised her eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up, “This is Mrs Hudson, my housekeeper.”

“Not your housekeeper, dear.”

“She’s the landlady but she also cleans and tries to feed me.”

“I’m not _his man_.” John blinked and tried to pull himself together, “Er, John Watson.” He held out his hand, belatedly realising that Mrs Hudson had her hands full. There was a small pot of tea on the tray, but also a tall glass of water, some tablets that looked like pain relievers, a small selection of pastries, and a plate of toast with a pot of jam on the side. It looked perfect. John scrambled to his feet to help her with it, not realising at first that the shock blanket had been protecting his dignity, “Oh my god, where are my trousers?”

He was standing there in his shirt and pants. Sherlock shrugged, “There was a left-over sandwich on them. I feared for the durability of the fibres due to the corrosive nature of your meal, so I harvested what remained and have it safely contained in a petri dish in the refrigerator. With your permission, I’d like to run some experiments on it, that is unless you want to finish consuming it.”

“Er…no thank you. Experiment away.” _John wasn’t sure what was going on but he was pretty positive that he didn’t want to eat food that had been scraped off his pant-leg_.

Mrs Hudson sat the tray down, “Your clothes are in the wash, Mr Watson…”

“ _Doctor_ Watson.” corrected Sherlock.

“Oh, pardon me,” Mrs Hudson smiled warmly and winked at the being on the chair, “ _Doctor_ Watson. Sherlock relieved you of your things. Pardon _him_ by the way, I did explain that taking an unconscious person’s clothes wasn’t on, but he sometimes misses these things. He _was_ trying to be helpful, if that makes it any better.”

John was so baffled by everything that he just picked up a cup and began defensively sipping in order to give himself time to think things through. It didn’t help. He was just as confused, lost, and overwhelmed as he’d been when he woke up. Mrs Hudson stayed, and smiled gently at him before saying, “The dryer is done by now. I’m going to pop on down and fetch Doctor Watson’s things.” She shot a significant look toward a hallway close by as she left.

Sherlock was staring at him still, but for some reason, it was the least unnerving thing to happen to John. If anything, it’s intense attention was so focused that John found himself responding to it, calming, and breathing easier. John sipped his tea after drinking down the water along with the tablets provided, using the opportunity to collect his thoughts and gaze around. The flat was a bit run down, but in a lovely long life kind of way. All the sharp edges had long since been worn away and there was a steady comfortableness about the place despite the chill, “If you move in you can arrange to have the heat turned back on. Mrs Hudson can’t afford to keep it going for nothing, and technically I can function adequately in temperatures down to minus thirty degrees Celsius. Any colder and the moving parts of my extended limbs begin to seize up, though the silicates in my body actually become more efficient. It’s a bit of a technical issue, but since there’s nothing I can do to upgrade, I make do with a sturdy coat.”

 _Upgrade? It could upgrade? Where on earth had this thing been made?_ “Where are you from?” John had no ideas which country might be able to take ownership of a piece of work like Sherlock, or misplace it, as it were. John was pretty sure that making Sherlock had been very expensive, and no group anywhere, military or otherwise, was going to let a pricy unit or a valuable piece of advanced engineering just go gadding about London. “Who made you? Why? Why me? In fact, how did I get here? You didn’t answer that.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, “You collapsed on Mr Chattergee’s floor. He wanted to call the police as well as an ambulance but I said I’d take responsibility for you. I carried you up here. I am built to _appear_ slight but the composition of my transport allows me to perform feats of comparatively remarkable strength. As for who made me, I have no idea. I came to awareness here on Baker Street. I have exactly two other acquaintances that I am familiar with who know of my true nature, Mrs Hudson and Mr Chattergee. Everyone else is merely within my physical proximity or a functionary of my necessary daily interactions. I am a highly analytical entity, and have recently found utility with your local legal enforcement organization. I will help them solve crimes, and I will take in fees doing the same for private citizens. I earn money already and I will happily give it to you if you live here as my assistant. You used to be a surgeon. I do not require that advanced level of skill but I do require a steady hand as well as the help of someone who has a large amount of medical knowledge. It’s often relevant to various facets of cases. You also used to be a soldier. This is dangerous work more often than not, and while I cannot be physically damaged, there are many instances where a helping hand would be most useful, especially during the apprehension of various violent suspects.”

 _What and just what?_ John understood every word and yet the context failed to make an appearance. He blinked for a moment, “Let me get this straight. You want me to move in with you. You need my hands for some reason. Do you want to solve crimes? I’m going to guess with Scotland Yard or something like that. Last, what makes you think I’d want to help anyone with anyone violent? I just got back from war, I think I’ve had my fill.” _What was this insane thing? Why was he standing here in his pants, listening?_

“You haven’t.” Sherlock stated baldly, “I observed you when you entered Speedy’s. Your hand was trembling, and your leg was operating improperly, you kept using your subordinate arm to do things like take up a napkin but only if you were paying attention to yourself, otherwise your left hand is dominant. You’re deliberately favouring it beyond its need. You’re healed now but accustomed to the debilitation of the wound. The problem with your leg is psychosomatic. You stood right up when Mrs Hudson arrived and remained steady on your feet until you realised you were in a state of undress, but even then, your leg did not weaken. You merely sat again. You don’t require a cane and therefore you would be of various degrees of usefulness to me in the field. I conduct a great deal of research in order to obtain the most relevant types of information within my storage system. Take note, I only retain useful information. I regularly delete extraneous details that hold no relevant value to my work.”

John wasn’t sure if he was more or less confused than when he woke up but one detail was screaming out to him, “I wouldn’t have to pay rent?” _He’d be saving hundreds of pounds a month,  thousands of pounds in a year!_

Sherlock huffed out a sigh that very much sounded put out and irritated, “No, you would not, John Watson, you would be living here _rent free_ . You _will_ have to pay for your own utilities and food, but I will absorb any work-related expenses _if_ you can function as my legal conduit to this city as well as my general assistant for my research and for the work. As your sponsor, I will also attempt to provide for your overall well-being to the best of my abilities. Do we have an agreement?”

John thought for the duration of the pastries on the tray. _Someone claiming to be a strange living machine wanted to keep him like a pet, a pet who would likely have to pay the things bills, and do all its running about. Unreal._ His ache in his head was easing back, and the tea was making him feel better with every sip. _Where did Sherlock even come from?_ He glanced around again and considered his options. _He couldn’t afford his mouldy bedsit much longer, six or eight months from now, he’d be down to his last quid, twenty years of savings spent in less than a year. How was he to survive after that? If he lived here, then he’d have a chance to financially recuperate. Being an assistant couldn’t be that bad, could it? Sherlock was pretty easy on the eyes, and likely a far better flatmate than a random assortment of lost souls at a homeless shelter, which would be John’s next housing choice_. He had nothing to lose, he was in a tight spot no matter how he looked at it, and he needed this situation desperately. It was a miraculous gift really. Finally, the universe seemed to smile at him a bit. “Alright. When?”

Sherlock smiled, and it gave him a number of extra chins. His eyes squinted up tight, and John couldn’t help but smile right back. The creature was lovely and brilliant, and right now, looked exactly like the sort of bloke you’d flatshare with when you both were low on cash. He looked like a man straight out of uni, just getting started in the world, and John felt like he’d made the right choice. _This could work. This would be okay_. “We can collect your likely meagre belongings after you’ve showered. You smell like chutney and stale alcohol. I’m sure that whatever human mating ritual you were attempting to engage in has long since moved past its optimal window. I have already procured new pants and a vest for you to use, and yes, I mean brand new. I keep a large selection of wearable items for testing, I don’t mind donating a couple of pieces to help preserve the cultural demand to obfuscate perception.”

John sorted through the verbiage, “I wasn’t on the pull.” He should feel insulted, but instead, he found he was still smiling, and even laughing a bit under his breath. _Sherlock was blunt, too blunt. It was as if he’d never learned manners, or how to moderate the connection between his brain and his mouth, rather like an over-observant child_. It was instantly endearing.

“I see. Regardless of your motivation, the aroma remains. Mrs Hudson has pointedly left towels in the loo as well as other sundries that she has strongly urged me to ask you to make use of.” John flushed with embarrassment. “I’m detecting erythema on your face and neck. Have I said something untoward? I do that. Mrs Hudson tells me this is a good time to interject a socially acceptable reparative comment. I’m sorry?”

“Er…you suggested heavily that I smell rather rank. It’s embarrassing.” Now John was acutely aware of his own stench and it was powerful. _Had he used deodorant at all? Were there things growing on his tongue? It was a surprise that he’d been able to taste the tea and pastries_. “I’ll just…go…excuse me.”

“Do not be embarrassed on my account, John. I cannot judge you for your physicality. It does not offend me, at least. Human bodily functions are fascinating, and though I can partake of many aspects of it, I am not actually human. The shower has been sanitised as per Mrs Hudson’s instructions and should be in acceptable order for your current as well as future use. I can keep my samples in my en suite.” John didn’t really know how to respond so he retreated instead. The loo was very welcome and after using the toilet, John washed his hands, opened the new toothbrush and toothpaste that waited for him, and began to clean himself up. The shower was heavenly. The water pressure was close enough to flay strength as to be negligible, and the hot water was scalding. John wanted to live there and decided for the shower alone that he’d accept the offer. He indulged himself with all the amenities provided, scrubbing himself up harder than he’d done in weeks.

When he got out he discovered his soiled undergarments had been deposited in the bin beneath the sink, and that plastic wrapped replacements lay in their place. Feeling a bit strange that someone had been in the bathroom while he’d been washing up, John redressed, using the bright red pants he’d been provided with, the white edges making his bum look more impressive than it actually was, and pulled on the plain white vest that accompanied it. His outer clothes were on a hanger on the door, everything smelling of dryer sheets. They were still warm and he completed his toilet quickly. Once he was done, John paused to look at himself in the mirror. Despite everything and how he’d mistreated himself, John decided that he didn’t look too shabby. He was still fairly fit, and a close shave had done wonders, as had the vigorous shower. He felt more invigorated than he had in ages, and with as quick a turn as he could manage, he marched himself to the front room where Sherlock waited. Apparently, it was time to move.

It took a shamefully short amount of time to relocate. The building manager barely batted an eye as John checked out, mutely accepting the key as well as the change-of-address form for any of John’s mail that might wander his way. Sherlock was surprisingly strong, hefting all of John’s bags himself, even the ones packed solid with books. He simply stood there looking no more burdened than if he were holding a bunch of balloons, “Come along John.” He looked around regretfully, “I wish I’d brought some sample containers, I can identify three of the moulds in here, but cannot place the fourth. Oh well, opportunities are everywhere. I’m sure I can come back again and secure a bit of the plaster from the bins out back, it looks as if this building is throwing itself away one piece at a time.”

He wasn’t wrong. 221 B Baker Street was a young and vibrate building compared to the one that had gradually morphed into a multi-unit despair containment system. John was glad to leave it behind and move into a new residence. John had been in a continuous state of surprise and wonder since he’d first made contact with Sherlock. _It was marvellous. It was like he was waking up from a long dark dream, and he wasn’t sure how life could get better than this_. “Feel free to leave your things in the large downstairs bedroom. Technically it is mine but I only sleep two hours a week, so I don’t actually need a king size bed, and most often make do with the sofa. If you like, I can also perform a large selection of sexual services to enhance your comfort as well as improve your living situation here. I am fully capable of intercourse in any form you may prefer it, except during cases. The work comes first.” The offer was made calmly, using the same tone Sherlock had used when he’d offered his shower, and when he’d asked John to move in.

Sherlock clearly didn’t know what a double-entendre was because he didn’t bat an eye when John laughed nervously. “It _comes_ first. Gotcha.” He was reeling now. _Sherlock not only was providing John with a very nice home rent free but had also offered John his, as he himself termed it, sexual services_ . He kept silent for only a moment and surprised himself by not saying _no_ to the offer, or protesting his sexuality. Instead, he said, “Most people can’t have sex with me. I’m a bit…generous…below.”

Sherlock was setting down John’s bags. He looked at John’s crotch speculatively, “I examined you closely when I was undressing you. You are at the extreme end of the human scale when it comes to your reproductive organ. Fortunately, I am able to calibrate myself to suit your needs if required. It’s no problem. I’m self-lubricating, I maintain a reservoir just in case, so don’t worry about it. I know humans have complex rites they seem to require before initiating congress, but I require nothing of the sort. Unless I am engaged in work or research, I am willing to make myself sexually available to you in order to repay the work I will require of you. I will be very demanding, so it’s only logical that you receive some sort of equitable recompense. Humans like to engage in non-procreative mating purely for pleasure, so use me as you need. Tea?” He held a pot out questioningly.

 _Self-lubricating?_ John wasn’t sure if he was in some kind of coma inspired fantasy because this was too unbelievable. He’d stumbled into the restaurant for a meal and ended up with a free flat and a living sex doll who was available to pleasure him whenever he had a few spare minutes. Incredible, “So if I asked you to suck my cock right now, you’d do it?”

“No. I have three cow tongues I need to finish working on. I need about two hours to complete my investigation. Have a meal and unpack. When I’m done we can adjourn to the bedroom and we can begin.”

John had time to set up his old laptop after eating the small plate of sandwiches Mrs Hudson had left in the fridge for him. He endured a call to his sister to give her his new address, unpacked his few clothes, and stowed his books. He was just shutting the wardrobe when Sherlock strolled in. The cyborg made John sit at the edge of the bed after undoing the doctor’s pants, “I’ve been programmed to do this but I don’t have _practical_ experience. There’s no need for gentleness on your part. I am extremely durable, but I warn you, I cannot use my hands.” Fully dressed, Sherlock knelt in front of John, his gloved hands raised, “Pull them off.”

John did so slowly, “Oh my god.” Sherlock’s arms were perfectly and gorgeously formed but at his wrists, everything ended. Instead of fleshy digits, Sherlock’s hands were metallic skeletons, steely shining bones that were almost invisibly wired and riveted, and covered in a thin see-through layer of some kind of membrane. Their elegant complexity was lovely but also shocking, and for the first time, it really crashed into John’s brain: _Sherlock really was a cyborg. A machine with human parts. He wasn’t alive._ Sherlock’s wrists were elegant and perfect, but beyond them, the material that covered his skeleton was starkly absent, “Does it hurt?” Sherlock shook his head. John looked at his face. It was beautiful. His red lips were full, and damp from where he’d licked them. He smelled nice too, sweet and a tiny bit spicy. “This is why you need me.” _Why wasn’t this freaking him out more?_

“Indeed John. I need not only a right-hand but left-hand man. I can do a great deal with these, but I have no sense of touch, nor any way to determine temperatures. It _is_ growing over but the rate is unpredictable. In the last year, it has only grown a few millimetres. At this pace, it will be years before the artificial flesh reaches my fingertips, and longer still before the nerve pathways grow into place. I take great care not to harm anyone, but accidents _can_ happen. It’s best, especially for sex, if we just manage without them as much as we can. Again, there’s no need to be delicate with me, in fact, you can be as rough as you like. I can perceive all human feelings with my transport, but I’m almost impossible to damage, and I rather enjoy strong sensations. Their positive or negative associations are irrelevant.”

John’s brain was whirling but his body was getting excited. There was a source of orgasms kneeling right in front of him, and those same hard bony but re-gloved hands were pushing John’s thighs apart, “Let me get my kit off _.” He was going to let Sherlock suck his cock. His little fantasy was coming true, and he was going to get to fuck an expensive sex doll any way he liked_ , “I might choke you on it.” _Those plush red lips. That pink licking tongue. That long pale neck_. John’s body began to react more obviously.

Sherlock was examining his penis with interest. “I don’t need to breathe. I have no gag reflex. The artificial muscles on my skeletal support structure are extremely elastic. Even with your generous proportions, I am certain I can manage to handle whatever you have to offer. I am incapable of contracting human diseases, so feel free to deposit your seminal fluid wherever you’d like. Condoms are unnecessary _nonetheless_ , I expect exclusivity. Ours is a _business_ arrangement between the two of us, and no one else. We’ll begin with this, but if oral isn’t satisfying, it’s not a problem for me to progress to anal if that’s what you like.”

“I’ve never fucked a bloke.” He thought of Sherlock’s rounded, firm, perfectly padded bum. _This wasn’t happening except it was. The world didn’t work like this except it had. There wasn’t really such a thing as an almost human sex doll that walked and talked but something was definitely standing so close to him that his face was nearly pressed into its abdomen, and he could feel the heat_.

“I’m not a man. I am a cyborg. My body is _not_ real.” Sherlock pulled his shirt up and pressed along a thin line that John could barely make out along his ribs. He felt shock and a kind of horrified awe when Sherlock’s ribcage popped open, a panel swinging away to reveal a complex series of…things…John could see filaments and lights and all of it seemed to be moving in a weirdly organic kind of way. Sherlock closed it off, and it was as if nothing had happened. He was once again simply a very beautiful man, partially nude, and speaking, “This body is a construct, a simulacrum. I am literally made for this. I have the physical capability to perform and even enjoy sex, _and_ I’m willing to do so as part of our partnership agreement but I have no emotional connection with the act. What I have is a vast desire to remain private, and that means not sharing my bed randomly with tertiary partners. Do whatever you wish with me, John, in this area, I am yours to have as you like, but remember, I shall use you just as hard in my turn and I expect every bit of you. My needs are many.”

 _Was that a threat? A seduction? Why wasn’t it bothering him that an improbable mechanical man existed and wanted to let John have sex with it?_ John didn’t know and his cock didn’t care. He’d been depressed and stressed for so long he wasn’t capable of rationally parsing his way through his current situation. He’d been useless and unwanted for months. All he could focus on was that someone was waiting to give him some release, and by the gods, his body wasn’t interested in anything his conscience might be trying to say, “Go on then, make it good for me.” _Guilt free sex at last. He needed this so much_.

Sherlock’s smile was a bit crooked, and a lot more rakish than an artificial construct with no real life experience ought to be able to produce, but there it was. Without another thought about what he was signing on for, John leant back and allowed Sherlock to begin. For a long minute, Sherlock merely knelt in front of John, _considering the problem,_ as it were. The tall man deliberately swallowed a few times, and John wondered curiously for a moment before he realised that Sherlock was _adjusting_ himself just as he said he would. When the cyborg was ready, he leant forward and licked. John groaned. _Sherlock’s tongue was as warm and wet as anyone’s._ It rasped against the tender flesh of his penis, swiping upward from bollocks to slit in one slow steady motion. “Sherlock,” John wasn’t sure what he wanted to say but received another crooked grin accompanied by a flirtatious wink. _Whoever had programmed Sherlock’s sexing abilities deserved rewards_.

Sherlock managed to mouth the entire thing while it was still relatively soft, but soon enough it thickened and firmed up until it reared up from John’s pubic hair, proud and bold. Sherlock was now mouthing the flared head, lapping at the moisture he found there, lipping carefully along the shaft until he came to John’s testicles. His long talented tongue played there for a few minutes before he kissed his way back up John’s cock to take the head once more. He began to move steadily, forward and back, allowing his lips to rub over the glans and slit. John inhaled deeply when the cyborg began to rock more and more, pushing John’s overlarge cock deeper into his mouth, his jaws opening impossibly wide. No human could do that! Sherlock’s body was clearly made of a much more elastic material, even if he’d unhinged his own jaw somehow. John was pretty sure Sherlock could do just about anything if he truly was what he said he was. Right this second, his entire universe was comprised of Sherlock’s mouth, and John _believed_.

John felt it when he hit the top of Sherlock’s throat. They both groaned. He could feel Sherlock’s tongue still wiggling even though it had to be pressed flat against the bottom of his mouth. _Oh, what a mouth! It was hot and wet, pliant and beckoning._ John had never been inside anyone even this far before _. Magnificent_. Sherlock had no problem sliding back and forth, making John obscenely wet. He’d never been sheathed like this before, and it was incredible to have such constriction over his cock. Sherlock swallowed and John felt his already over thick cock throb and swell further. Sherlock remained calm, simply rocking slightly faster in careful increments until John was gasping. It felt amazing but also like it wasn’t nearly enough already.

Sherlock pulled off and John swore that his eyes were dilated. His lips were dark red and a bit swollen, just like a real person’s mouth would look after going down on someone, “Please John, _use_ me.” _Was Sherlock begging him?_ John’s body didn’t wait for his brain to complete the pondering process. With a jerk of his hips, he forced his cock back into Sherlock’s mouth. They moaned in tandem, and John didn’t mistake the tiny thrust that Sherlock’s hips made, nor mistake the growing bulge in its finely cut trousers. _Machine or not, Sherlock was aroused!_

John reacted in a way that surprised him. He pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth, pushed the cyborg onto its hands so it was on all fours in front of him, placed the head of his very hard and dripping wet cock against the small dark anus he found there and pushed firmly forward. The cyborg’s hole was tight, twitching, and a bit dry but the smear of pre-come on John’s penis was enough to start with. “Yes John, just like that.” Sherlock groaned as his artificial flesh gave way reluctantly, and John groaned louder as he felt the too-tight squeeze from the unprepared area he was currently invading. Sherlock’s torso dropped down as he rested his chest on the floor, freeing his hands to reach back and spread himself wider, inviting John to push deeper. “Oh, that’s intense.” Sherlock didn’t sound like he wanted John to stop, and indeed, was doing his own part to take John deeper as quickly as he could.

On a human, this would have been terribly painful and damaging. John gasped as he felt Sherlock’s insides grow damp and then _slick_ even while he wedged more and more of his over-sized penis into it. John felt drugged, already high on the euphoric effects of sex. Sherlock’s channel gripped him hard, but welcomed him, almost sucking John inside faster than he could push. Sherlock was trembling from head to toe as John invaded, his toes drumming on the carpet as he crooned and undulated, “Gorgeous. Beautiful. Amazing.” The last word made Sherlock’s entire back flush pink. _Was he blushing? He was!_ John was astonished. _Was it possible to make a machine blush?_ Sherlock was reacting no differently than a human lover would and it made John’s heart ache. “Perfect. You’re perfect,” he moaned, and Sherlock moaned with him.

John set a hard pace, retreating and then pushing, moving in small increments to draw his own pleasure out. This was the first time in his life he knew for a fact that he could bottom out, and he wanted to enjoy _this_ first time to the fullest. Sherlock’s arsehole stretched wide to fit him, the rim red and angry looking, but the lubricant he was producing had begun arriving in copious amounts. Except for that major difference, John was astonished at how lifelike Sherlock was, he was a doctor, and he couldn’t tell that Sherlock’s body was artificial. Sherlock’s penis was hard too, and when John gripped it, he could feel hot wet droplets of something slick adorning the tip. If it wasn’t for his hands and the slick in his arse, John would never know Sherlock wasn’t human. He was absolute perfection, and when John finally felt that heavenly bottom pressed tight to his pubes, he groaned so loudly he worried for an instant that people on the street could hear him, “John, oh John!” Sherlock was gasping, “This is so unexpected. I feel…oh…I _feel_.” The last word rumbled out, filled with a hunger John recognised.

John understood. Sherlock was as amazed as he was. _The cyborg hadn’t expected a sensation payoff_ . It made John all the more aware that the machine was…had been…a virgin, and that he was no longer but only because John had mounted him without asking before fucking him like some kind of animal. He was still doing it and he couldn’t make himself stop. John had Sherlock’s hips gripped tight, thrusting back and forth rapidly, chasing his own pleasure with grim focus. _If Sherlock had been human, John’s actions would be criminal._ He wanted to do it forever. It felt so good to be _in_ someone all the way, even if that someone wasn’t a real someone. Sherlock was lovely to look at, felt incredible, and was so hot and wet inside, “I’m gonna come,” he gasped.

Sherlock was crooning again, and John saw his shoulder moving rhythmically. _Was Sherlock touching himself_ ? John checked. _He was!_ Sherlock was wanking furiously, his glove covered hand tugging on his small cock roughly with his eyes squeezed shut. “John.” Sherlock was whimpering. “ _John!_ ” That did it for the doctor. Sherlock sounded desperate and needy, two qualities that he found impossible to resist. With a loud groan, he felt the orgasm that had gathered low in his body rise up and erupt from him, wresting grunt after grunt as he snapped his hips repeatedly. He’d never come inside someone like this, buried up to his root in their body, and Sherlock had never had someone inside him before.

John had never felt so good. He felt...sated. It wasn’t a state he got to enjoy often, especially to this degree. It was unprecedented. It was more than his body being satisfied, in was deeper than that. The emptiness seemed reduced, not exactly gone, but close. In its place was a kind of hum, a regular throbbing beat that made John realise they’d lost their virginity together. If it had been possible for him to huff out a laugh, he would have. Instead, he collapsed on top of Sherlock’s long back, still nestled tightly inside the heat of him, and panted. Sherlock seemed to be panting too, and it made no sense but once again, Sherlock seemed to read his mind and answered, “I’m designed to mimic realistic human reactions. I’ve just never tried them before. I feel…out of breath but euphoric. It is illogical since I still don’t actually require oxygen, nor should I be feeling so…” His body sagged a bit as he ran out of words, “That felt amazing.” Sherlock was now running his flattened hands up and down his own torso as if lazily enjoying the afterglow. The leather made a soft rasping sound as he dragged carelessly.

“You can orgasm.” John heard the wonder in his voice and felt Sherlock’s deep but almost silent chuckle, “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.” _Where had Sherlock come from? Who on earth had this kind of ability? Who could possibly create something so advanced, so responsive, and likely incredibly expensive and then just misplace it?_ No one seemed to be searching for Sherlock, at least, not that the cyborg or Mrs Hudson had mentioned.

“For a first experience, I’m going to have to say this was very well accomplished.” Sherlock sounded prim now, his body unmoving, but the sweat and mess on his skin disappearing along with his blushes. “I was designed to offer a wide spectrum of sexual options; it’s built right into me. I am fairly certain I’ve never offered my services before, at least, not _here_. I suppose I could have but there were so many other favours that I could manage before it came to that. I have no recollection of anything before Mrs Hudson met me.”

John sat back on the sofa, naked and temporarily sated. Sherlock seemed content to stay where he was, a tiny drop of come leaking from his once again tight looking hole, and he looked more human than ever. John felt relaxed so he just kept the conversation going, “Favours?”

“Indeed. Mrs Hudson and the rest of the neighbours now enjoy full access to all digitally available entertainments, particularly the internet. I’ve helped Mr Chattergee by re-wiring his shop so that his energy load was significantly reduced in cost but not in effectiveness. There was a great deal of wastage which I, of course, eliminated. I also solve crimes, we’ve spoken of this, and from cases do I wish to earn the largest part of my income. Mrs Hudson requires a legitimate tenant and was about to let her available space to a pair of newlyweds who have made an offer. She gave that space to me instead, and I have no kind of identification to give her that would provide both of us with what we need, hence my need for you. I have nothing _you_ particularly need outside of an empty bedroom _except_ my ability to have sex, so the barter has been struck. I think I’ve made a very good deal.”

Now John felt a bit queasy as the reality of his new situation settled in. He _was_ getting a free room, free sex, and basically free everything, all for no more effort than paying bills with money that he wouldn’t even need to earn, and Sherlock was _grateful_. It felt wrong, but now the cyborg was sitting up and stretching, looking for all the world like a great big housecat, “Very interesting! I won’t even need to recharge. It seems that friction we engaged in has been absorbed by my transport and stored, I’m even more energised than before we engaged. My need to ingest sustenance is also greatly reduced. That is useful knowledge. If we’re ever in a situation where I cannot power up normally, then you can utilise my transport sexually in order to recharge my internal resources! Practical as well as pleasurable.” He seemed very pleased, nearly humming as he sorted himself out.

“Great.” John replied weakly. _So, human battery recharger._ A hysterically laughing voice in his head wondered if he could put such a skill on his CV. _He was seriously doing this. He was somehow okay with living with an impossible creature, putting his penis inside of it, and had also agreed to run about doing a great load of bizarre favours for it all day every day? Was he insane? Had he gone insane?_ John wondered for a moment if he’d gone off the deep end if depression had finally broken him down so far that he was living in some kind of fantasy land where he had a young and eternally beautiful lover, and life was exciting and meaningful once more. _Could you tell if you’d gone insane?_

“John, I can see all six of your neurones firing. Stop overthinking things and get on with your list!” Sherlock was somehow already redressed and pointing imperiously at John’s mobile. A notification was flashing, “I need everything on it. Mrs Hudson has deposited all my earnings into your accounts and is expecting a rental payment as soon as possible. That’s second on the list, no, let’s make that first since you have to go to the bank anyway. I need every possible denomination up to the highest one publicly available, and don’t forget to stop by the morgue, the pathologist on staff is very accommodating, and she has some samples for me to examine.”

John huffed out a disbelieving breath before slowly getting out of bed. He would have liked a bit of time to recuperate, but Sherlock had been more than fair in this bargain. It would be churlish in the extreme to complain about doing exactly what he’d agreed to do, anything Sherlock needed, “Alright but we’re going to have a talk about post-coital cuddling when I get back.”

“I’m ignoring you now John, please get me my samples. And tea. And some of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits. The ginger-nuts. And scalpels, I need several different models. Check your notifications.” Sherlock was already busy at the table, so with a disbelieving but also somehow fond chuckle, John got on with his end of their deal.

 


	4. Pair Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have met and fallen in together instantly. Life at 221 B Baker Street certainly isn't boring.

Once he moved to 221 B Baker Street, John’s life certainly had changed. His first evening with Sherlock had been an eye-opening one, and going over each moment of it was now one of his favourite wank-inducing habits, not that he needed to wank anymore, not unless he wanted to. Sherlock had been entirely honest about his availability. After that first evening, John had been reticent, trying to fathom out a decent way to request some sexual assistance when he was tempted to wank instead. Sherlock had certainly made use of his availability. John was sent on a kind of crazy never-ending scavenger hunt around London, obtaining weird and unusual items or ingredients for Sherlock to use for his studies.

John assisted Sherlock on all stages of his studies as well, doing whatever needed to be done by hand with a delicacy and precision that Sherlock praised more than once. John met the morgue staff, all of whom knew of Sherlock, or at least of his research, and knew John was essentially their peculiar client’s messenger boy. More than once John had to take a taxi to return to Baker Street because he felt odd about taking human organs onto the Tube. He put off asking for sex, still not knowing how to broach the subject.

On the third day Sherlock had given him an askance look, and simply said, “I have twenty minutes left to wait before this next incubation period is over. Open your trousers.” That had been the extent of Sherlock’s need for foreplay. The cyborg had knelt in front of John and used seventeen and a half of those minutes sucking the doctor dry, allowing long thick pulses of come to slide down his willing and accepting throat, his jaw once again unhinged unnaturally wide. “I won’t be available for the next four hours, but if you require congress, I am amenable after that window of time has elapsed.”

Sherlock had simply gone back to his makeshift lab without waiting for an answer. He popped his head out, “In fact, congress would be very welcome. I have many examinations to make and would prefer not to waste time recharging. It takes at least two hours if I just sit, an hour if I plug into the local electrical grid, but you got off in less than half an hour. I wonder if I can store an excess of charge if we copulate for longer than that? Can you manage more than thirty minutes of intercourse?” John’s ego took a bit of a nosedive, “Don’t look like that John, I didn’t say you suffered from premature ejaculation, I’m just that good. If I weren’t so busy right now, I’d let you have sex with me for as long as you could manage, if that’s what you really want. After all, I did promise to make myself as available as possible, and I mean that.”

That information didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, John was feeling something a lot like guilt tinged with shame that he was using a living sex toy to pleasure himself, and was essentially prostituting himself in exchange for a flat to live in. With an even greater degree of unpleasant shock, he realised he was outright being kept by Sherlock. _He couldn’t even call Sherlock his sugar daddy. He wasn’t a daddy or even a person!_ John had no real income of his own except for his pension, and so far, John had only paid for his groceries. Sherlock took care of everything else, even the utilities which he had originally said John would pay for, and included John’s mobile because of his new assistant status. “Business costs must be properly accounted for,” the cyborg was fussy, “If I want to maintain an actual credible business, then my staff, meaning you, must be reachable whenever I need to reach you. Of course, I’m going to pay your bills.” Sherlock thought nothing of it but John felt weirder and weirder about his situation but then Sherlock added, “There’s nothing stopping you from finding a job at a local hospital or emergency intake. Keeping your skills sharp will only benefit my work, and you gaining access to medical facilities would only be a bonus. You can keep your income to spend as you like. All I request is that you not quit living at 221 B Baker Street for the next several years.”

“Years?” John was astonished. One of his great worries had been money or lack thereof. _If he saved on rent for a single year, he would be in such good shape financially. If he did three, why, he’d be doing better than alright. Living with Sherlock was the best thing to have ever happened to him!_

 _“Years_ , John. There is a spare bedroom upstairs so if you do need privacy for whatever reason, it’s there. I must stress a particular point; I would prefer only clients to be allowed in, and _not_ casual visitors, especially nosey ones. I’d prefer to keep our bedroom private if you please, if only for the sake of my sock index. I’d rather not have curious fingers disrupting my system, especially if you engage in congress with a third party.”

So that took care of that question, but still, “You don’t mind me to have sex with people outside of the flat?”

“I do, intensely. _I_ can’t get ill due to your potential carelessness but I’d prefer not to risk anything. We _could_ resort to condoms but then I receive no further benefit from your emissions. People tend to be tactile and curious. During congress you can only protect your penis with a condom, the rest of you can easily become area zero for contamination. If you bring someone to our home, they could wander, or worse, begin exploring, and I care that my socks remain unmolested. I don’t want strangers in my flat unless I invite them, or until _we’ve_ mutually decided to experiment with another.”  

John felt angry that Sherlock was expecting what amounted to a committed relationship on his part but then felt guilty because his entire life had been substantially upgraded in the best sorts of ways. Sherlock was the one who bore the brunt of the costs, no matter how you looked at it, and now John felt guilty in a whole different way. _He’d taken over Sherlock’s room quickly, invading his wardrobe, and yes, even his precious sock index_ , “Not you John, you don’t count as a stranger! You’re my…” he stalled, “My colleague. As such, you, of course, may go through my socks whenever you please. Sleeping in my bed is also acceptable. Your body odour is unobjectionable. You make the mattress warm too, and I like that.”

John was giggling now and felt better. When Sherlock was demanding, he was _very_ demanding. There had been moments initially where John wondered if he’d even get a chance to sleep through the night ever again. Sherlock was so very strange. If he hadn’t shown John his access panels, he would have thought Sherlock to be some kind of eccentric, and never once question his humanity. “Right, um. Fine, thanks, er, it isn’t likely that I’m going to go on the pull anytime soon, though. I mean, I’m not exactly boyfriend material, I was always just looking for someone to get off with.” His good mood evaporated suddenly because it was all true. _John was a wreck of a human being, why burden someone’s life with his continued presence?_ He had practically nothing to offer anyone, why even Sherlock, who wasn’t even human, couldn’t find any better use for John than as a delivery person, merely a remotely operated handler of _things_ . His job required no thought, not even when the cyborg made John assist during experiments, capping phials, or preparing slides, or doing the multitude of things Sherlock wasn’t able to because of his fingers.  _Sherlock told him where to go and what to do, and that was pretty much all John contributed to the universe_.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and sat back, “I can hear your self-esteem plummeting from the kitchen, John!” The cyborg came to stand in front of the doctor, “I have no idea what kinds of standards you have concerning yourself John, but I find nothing objectionable about you, and you know what I think of people in general.” _Yes. John did_. Sherlock kept up an endless monologue of unflattering observations about the people they came across all day every day. People annoyed him a huge amount. John realise that he himself was excluded from that ire. Sherlock seemed to enjoy John’s company, more and more frequently asking John’s opinion or preference about a variety of topics, and taking his answers seriously. Fondness filled his heart when the cyborg tilted his head and said in an encouraging voice, “Go and get a job. Today. There is a tremendous amount of repair services that require technicians with your skill sets. Approach some of them. Get some work outside of the flat. Remind yourself why working for me is much better, and more exciting. Off you pop.”

“They’re called _hospitals_ , not repair…whatevers.” Sherlock was ignoring him again but John was smiling. He got himself ready in short order and took himself off to do as requested. John approached some of the nearby emergency clinics and medical practices. He applied for a variety of positions and was startled to find that he had four call-backs before he even made it back to Baker Street. Sherlock looked almost smug as John went over their calendar while arranging interviews. By the time the afternoon ended, John had job offers from every single place he had applied at and it felt good. His skills were considerable, even without being able to be a surgeon any longer, and every single employer had said the same thing, that John was over-qualified but that they’d be very excited if he came to work for them anyway. He was as good as in, and the rest of the procedures were mere protocol, “Fine, yes, I feel better.”

The cyborg looked smug. He stood next to John and exuded an aura of both pride and affection that warmed John completely. “Excellent, now, turn them all down.” Sherlock had the same encouraging smile on his face.

John was already scowling, his pleasant feelings completely displaced. “What? _No!_ I want to practice as a doctor again Sherlock!” _Was Sherlock joking around? There wasn’t any evidence that he had a sense of humour, even if he could be sarcastic without putting any effort into_ it.

“Then you won’t be available for me all the time and I need you!” Sherlock sounded petulant and bordering on irritated.

John was scowling even more. _He’d spent a lot of time arranging those interviews! If Sherlock hadn’t actually wanted John to get a different job, he shouldn’t have told him to go get one_ . John quickly tallied up his free time. In the last week, he’d done exactly one chore for Sherlock, that was it. That mean he’d had six days of nothing to do but wait to see if Sherlock needed him to change slides, or slice something, or do anything at all. The cyborg had invented workarounds for all his tactile issues and hadn’t really needed help for ages. He just seemed to enjoy talking to John while he worked. Even in the bedroom, he took on the handless sex challenge with aplomb. John was very satisfied with how every other part of Sherlock’s body felt. Still, sex aside, there was time for John to be out of the flat, and still be available for Sherlock during cases. He’d make sure whoever he worked for knew that Sherlock’s cases were his first obligation and that he could only be available on an on-call basis. “You don’t actually _need_ me, Sherlock, not seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day!”

“Oh fine, you can have two hours off on Sundays, that’s your mandated day of rest isn’t it?”

“It _isn’t_ mandated, and no, and no!” John decided to go hard, to make a statement, “I’m going to pick a place and work there for _whatever hours they give me_ . That’s what a _job_ is! When I work for you, you don’t expect me to just sod off halfway through something, do you? I never have, have I? I finish what I start, you know that. You told me to get a job, I did. I’m going to be a practising doctor again. _Finally_.”

“Your primary job is with me, though!” Sherlock seemed to be getting irritated, “I only told you to go apply in order to remind you that you have talents that are still valued and marketable despite the fact that you don’t need to. _I_ take care of you. You work for _me_! I don’t want you being at the beck and call of anyone else! You are mine!”

“You don’t own me, Sherlock!” John was beginning to feel frustrated and a little caged.

“I almost do!” Sherlock actually stuck his bottom lip out, his mouth bent into an unhappy arc. _He was pouting_!

“You’re being childish. I would really like to practice as a doctor. I went to school for _years_ to learn how, and it makes me feel good. I like helping people. I like helping you, too, and I’m not saying I’m unappreciative.” John found he was now standing in front of the cyborg and was petting the tall entity’s gloved hand soothingly. Sherlock did look upset, and it bothered John enough that be almost relented but now he felt he had a point to make, “You _don’t_ own me, though. No one does, just like no one owns you. I won’t be treated like a possession Sherlock, and I’ll never allow anyone to treat you like one either, so how about returning the favour?”

Sherlock’s shoulder’s sagged visibly, “Fine. Go. Be a _doctor_ .” Clearly, he was sulky now, and without a word returned to the kitchen to resume his experiments. John found he had a smile on his face as he heard Sherlock grumble petulantly under his breath, growling the words out nearly below John’s hearing range but not quite. “You _are_ mine, though, John Watson. You know it. You _agreed_.” Affection warred with annoyance. Sherlock was incredibly demanding to work for but John knew he wasn’t wrong. It might have been a ploy on Sherlock’s part, but John was going to go with it and work as a doctor again. Taking up his laptop he researched each place he’d applied.

The next three days with Sherlock were tense. He wasn’t exactly ignoring John, but he wasn’t behaving the same either, and he had definitely cut John off of sex, keeping his experiments going around the clock with virtually no stopping. Sherlock’s nose was out of joint because John kept leaving to go have job interviews. It aggravated Sherlock deeply to realise that John was being courted and that his assistant, _his_ blogger, was being distracted from The Work. Sherlock stopped asking for tea, stopped eating biscuits, stopped everything except his experiments.

John was worried at first before he remembered that Sherlock didn’t actually need to eat, nor to rest, not really and that having a tantrum wasn’t going to stop John from getting a job. However, that didn’t mean he wanted things to be tense forever, “I picked a spot.” Sherlock ignored him with greater intensity but John just continued. “It’s at Bart’s.” The intensity lessened. “The mortuary.” Now John knew he had Sherlock’s attention even though the cyborg stubbornly refused to look his way, “I’m to help specifically with deaths involving violent trauma or mysterious causes. It’s only occasional hours, only when something really strange needs dealing with.”

Now Sherlock turned to gaze down at him, his face pleased and a little excited looking, “Oh John.” Sherlock’s eyes were warm and limpid. John had read the word, but now he was seeing it in real life. The spectacular amalgam of colours that made up the cyborg’s amazing eyes seemed softer, fluid, larger, and glowing. “Really?”

“Yes really, _and_ they said I could bring in any consultant I wanted when the cases were too tricky.” John found himself being warmly embraced by the cyborg. “You get full-time access if I get the job.” John was now being kissed within an inch of his life, and he found himself greedily accepting it, gratitude filling him as the cyborg finally gave him the attention he hadn’t admitted he had missed horribly. He’d been receiving the cold shoulder for days now, and John hadn’t realized how accustomed he was to the strange gentleness of Sherlock’s touch, or how lovely it felt to be cradled in the cyborg’s endlessly strong arms, or how good it felt to allow his hands to freely wander over that lush arse. “So, is that okay?”

“Let me show you how _okay_ it is.” Sherlock proceeded to absolutely ruin John, leading him to their bedroom followed by a trail of discarded clothing. The soldier was kissed, stroked, and fondled until he was a gasping mess, and then Sherlock blew his mind by impaling himself on John, kneeling over his prone body to do so. John watched himself push into Sherlock’s welcoming body, the slick dampness and intense heat nearly enough to finish him before the cyborg even began to move. “Thank you, John, for being so surprising, so useful, so interesting.” Sherlock sighed the words out, moaning softly, “You’re so very good.”

John touched Sherlock hungrily. Sherlock’s feet were braced on the bed flatly, his body curved away from John, and he held himself up by one arm, his other still-gloved hand kept free to pleasure himself. The position looked exhausting and uncomfortable but felt brilliant. John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t be taxed by any of his efforts, no matter how awkward the position was, and with that in mind, began to fuck up into Sherlock’s body with greater purpose. Sherlock groaned, and it made John’s cock twitch. Sherlock felt and sounded exactly like a normal human, but no man anywhere had an arse that could take John like this without extensive preparation. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself as much as John was, and the rougher John got, the louder Sherlock moaned. The cyborg was so thin and willowy that John watched in fascination as his small abdomen occasionally pushed out when John thrust particularly hard. It turned him on, and so he kept doing it. Sherlock was magnificent in bed, responsive, accepting, and just perfect.

John stopped just long enough to reposition them both. He got Sherlock on his knees, pushing back into his body eagerly. Sherlock was moaning softly again, and his volume increased significantly when John made sure to target the region where a human prostate would be found. Whatever it was that Sherlock had there, it made the cyborg react in the exact same fashion, “John!” he cried out, “More, please, more!”

John enjoyed this so much. He enjoyed making Sherlock’s body blush, he enjoyed how it felt to bury his entire oversized cock deep into a welcoming body without worry, he really enjoyed how Sherlock smelled during sex, and John just felt…good. Being with Sherlock wasn’t anything like being with anyone else. It was liberating and unfettered. The wet sounds that filled the room made him feel even more aroused, and with glee, he realised that Sherlock was close. Artificial being or not, Sherlock’s ability to orgasm was as organic a response as anyone. Correctly stimulated, he couldn’t help himself, and John reminded himself that he had other skills learned during his travels. Making Sherlock grunt like an animal made John feel powerfully connected to the strange being kneeling in front of him, a connection far beyond cocks and come and the mess of sex. He actually liked Sherlock, liked the challenge of being with him, liked how different he was, how unique, how fascinating. Sherlock was beautiful too, and more responsive than any lover John had ever tried to be with. He rode John’s oversized cock greedily, twisting his hips often to add a painful sting to his pleasures. The little gasp of surprise that always heralded the cyborg’s orgasm was all the reward John needed to tip himself over the edge into a shattering climax that Sherlock seemed to share with him.

Sherlock didn’t seem to realise that he hummed happily after he came. Sex was absolutely brilliant, and he’d missed in, though he’d never admit to John that he’d been so peeved that he’d deliberately withheld himself. Now he lay limply beside John for several minutes before rising gracefully from the bed to redress. Sherlock was enjoying the buzz his transport was experiencing, the lassitude, and the interesting way his vehicle seemed to welcome and absorb John’s genetic contribution. He enjoyed being with John the way he didn’t seem to enjoy being with anyone else. He preferred John’s company, John’s touch, and John’s scent, far more than he ever expected to enjoy anything. In fact, all the time prior to John’s arrival seemed to have become almost grey in comparison, as if the light hadn’t shone brightly until the soldier had arrived.

Sherlock had been keeping track. There was a measurable increase in his productivity after time with John. His brain worked faster and more efficiently, and his transport became stronger and more powerful. He understood that ingesting John’s semen was nutritious, and his body seemed to accept it even more readily than the sweet biscuits he enjoyed so much, no matter how it was delivered. It wasn’t until he was tugging on his leather gloves that he noticed that his wrists were completely covered with regrown flesh and that in fact, the whole bottom edge of his palms had advanced at least three millimetres. _Fascinating_.

Over the next several weeks Sherlock found that John’s new job was more advantageous than not. Yes, his blogger was gone for part of the day three days a week, far more than they’d bargained for, but the very first time Sherlock wanted to use his new access, the tools he was allowed to use made up for any inconvenience he might have had to endure. It was marvellous. High powered saws, electron microscopes, centrifuges, all of it was primitive and wonderful. With these few simple tools, Sherlock was able to expand his experiment potentials exponentially. His hands were growing over faster and faster too, he rarely took his leather gloves off, but every single day when John wasn’t around, Sherlock measured the progression and made notes. His fingers were nearly completely covered with new growth. He still couldn’t feel anything with his digits, but all the metallic parts were obscured. He supposed the nerves would come in last. Astonishing, especially when he hadn’t expected to reach such levels for at least a year.

John always saved the most interesting corpses for Sherlock to look at and introduced the cyborg to the woman in charge, a small woman named Hooper. When they exchanged names, Sherlock had experienced a weird frisson along his epidermis. If he’d had hair on his forearms, they would have been standing up. He could deduce nothing about Dr Hooper to put him on the defensive, but he did find that he was hyper-aware of her presence, nearly as much as he was with John but not in a sexual way. He didn’t exactly like Doctor Hooper but he got on with her better than anyone apart from John. At first, she had hesitantly tried flirting with him but he put a stop to that by simply kissing a very surprised John goodbye one day. Molly had blushed, looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then had adjusted her behaviour accordingly. Once that awkward stage had been passed Sherlock found her company tolerable, and vastly preferable to anyone else who worked at Bart’s, apart from his John. She had been there for so long, none of her associates could recall when she’d even started, she was just around and didn’t seem to have a life outside of her work. He approved of her dedication and lack of drama.

Sherlock was enjoying his life. Lestrade produced more and more interesting cases, and in between working on those, he went over all the engaging details that John provided. John himself was fascinating, and Sherlock learned a great deal about how to be human, and how to exist in their current society. His reactions were less studied now and had become almost instantaneous reflections of the increasingly complex emotions he was capable of experiencing. He discovered that he had a developing need for John’s positive approval, and further learned through observation, that John was happiest with him when in a state of personal contentment. That state was easily maintained by a combination of honest compliments because John could practically smell a false one, a steady supply of fresh food, especially milk, and a steadier supply of vigorous sex. John had a large appetite, and through their many conversations, Sherlock learned that John was nearly as new to penetrative sex as he was. Sherlock was rather proud of the fact that he was the only one who was able to pleasure John and kept track of his lover’s orgasms, rating them by the intensity in his mind palace.

John was happy around Sherlock but he did have a roving eye for the ladies. It made Sherlock feel the darker spectrum of his emotions when he observed such looks, and reluctantly internally catalogued them as jealousy. John didn’t like it when Sherlock was clingy and possessive so he overcompensated by being blunter than ever. John berated him after Sherlock made a client cry, so he adapted his behaviours as much as he was able. It was better, and though he did get accused of being _an unfeeling machine_ several times, no one outright named him a cyborg, so he felt that his secret was safe enough. John seemed to find Sherlock’s ways more amusing than annoying and seemed to derive great pleasure from helping Sherlock with day to day matters. It was refreshing. Most people instantly disliked him for his personality, not his transport, and he could live with that. Solving crimes soon kept them busy all the time, and he was entirely content. One day, John sent a message from work, “Going out for coffee. Be back later.”

Sherlock checked the cupboard. There were several days worth of coffee grounds left in the air-tight container John used. _Why did he need to go out for more?_ When John returned two hours later Sherlock picked up the unmistakable odour of chemically enhanced human female. _Perfume?_ Sherlock felt his insides twist in an unexplainable way, and he knew he was scowling, “Where were you?”

“I went out for coffee,” John said with a smile. He looked bright of eye and pleased with himself, “I have a date tomorrow night.” He was grinning, and not looking at Sherlock who wasn’t smiling back, not even a bit, “She’s amazing. I think you’d like her.”

“Excuse me? Why would _I_ like her, and more importantly, _why would I need to_ ?” Dating was a euphemism for mating rituals. _John was trying to mate with a human woman!_ Sherlock resisted the urge to push John into their bedroom before barring the door to keep his soldier inside.

John’s smile fell away, “I’m going on _a date,_ Sherlock. If it goes well, I’ll go on another one, and another one and another one until I’m sure she’s the right one for me. It’s called _having a relationship_ , and I didn’t know that you cared.”

“I care greatly that you plan on _spending even more time_ away from the flat, and even _less_ time doing what you agreed to do, which was to be _my_ blogger and assistant. You haven’t written up the last three cases we’ve done because of your new job, which, might I remind you, was supposed to be _occasional_ , not half the week every week! How am I to obtain more work and develop my reputation if you’re running about attempting to inseminate some female? Do I not offer enough sex? Is this some kind of punitive effort on your part?” Sherlock found that he was feeling something deep and dark inside. He didn’t like this idea; he didn’t like it at all.

“You don’t _own_ me, Sherlock.” John kept saying that but it made no sense to Sherlock. _He’d examined human personal relationships. Many partnerships were financially sustained by one individual while the other partner maintained the other aspects of their paired social paradigm in order to stake a claim upon the other_ . He was fulfilling his role. _Why was John looking for more? What else did Sherlock need to do to legitimise their pair-bond?_

“CLOSE ENOUGH.” Sherlock shouted, “You stay here with me as _my_ assistant. I give you everything without qualm specifically so that you will remain here _solely for me_ , that was the deal, not you pursuing some _relationship_ as if you are a free man. _You are not free_ . You are mine! _Mine_ , John!”

John surprised him by standing up, his fists curled tight. “I. Am. Not. Property!” John’s jaw jutted out pugnaciously, “I agreed to be your assistant, yes. I agreed to do whatever you needed. I did not agree to give myself to you completely, nor did I agree to give up my freedom to seek and find someone who might be perfect for me. I _like_ Mary, that’s why I asked her out. We get on. I think she’s attractive and interesting, and we’re going on a date. That’s it.”

“I didn’t say you were property, John! I said you were MINE!” John was deliberately ignoring him now. Sherlock was furious and he didn’t know how to express it. He went back to the kitchen and looked over his experiments. He couldn’t concentrate on any of it, and in a fit, he awkwardly dismantled the entire setup, boxed it away, and left the flat to roam the streets of London. He found it soothing, sometimes stopping to talk with the homeless wanderers that he encountered. They were refreshing, some speaking in weird riddles or outright gibberish, others were fluent and filled with passionate speeches about the world around them. All of them suffered in some way or were considered so unacceptable by society that they were left to drift unattended, surviving or not as fate would have it. Sherlock found it calmed him to have these people to speak to.

The second Sherlock stormed out John pulled out his mobile and sent a deliberately saucy message to Mary as if taunting his now absent flatmate. It took him a minute to realise that she’d answered back immediately and was inviting him over. He demurred for a bit, but then compromised, offering her dinner out instead. She accepted and John felt dizzy for a minute, as if his desires were split in two, but only for a minute. He forgot about it soon enough as he went through the rest of his day happily distracted with his incipient romance.

Dating Mary was exhilarating. It wasn’t that she was breathtakingly beautiful, though she did have a great deal of character, but she smelled like heaven, and he couldn’t get enough. The second she came close enough, she made John feel like he was the most amazing man in the world, especially when more than one other bloke approached her when they went dancing after their meal, and she ignored every last one of them in favour of John. His ego swelled. He sniggered to himself at the thought. _Sherlock wasn’t the only one who wanted to have sex with John. John was good at sex too, he had a bit of a reputation, even._

John felt conflicted again. He _knew_ he should not pursue Mary, he’d given his word to Sherlock but he found her impossible to resist. He thought of Sherlock often and thought of their life together. He had fun with the cyborg. Sherlock had no clue about social niceties, and it was a riot.  Mary was amazing but she wasn't fun the same way. She was polite. Sherlock insulted people all the time by relentlessly reporting the truth, and John found that refreshing as well. Mary relied heavily on delicate hints. Sherlock wasn’t subtle. He said what he said, and there were no grey areas at all. John knew where he stood with Sherlock, and it felt right.

At the same time, Sherlock wasn’t really _real_ , not really. Mary was. Sherlock was programmed to be a certain way, but Mary wasn’t. She was a real person, an actual human from his world and timeline, and she thought John was worth spending time with. That made him feel good. Not the same way Sherlock made him feel good, John had a moment of regret about that. His life with Sherlock was actually very satisfying, but there was something about Mary. John felt special around her, he felt attractive around her, he felt...masculine. She wasn’t weak, she was strong, strong enough to deal with someone who had as much baggage as he did. She was interesting, maybe not as interesting as Sherlock, but then, who was? She was pretty. Again, not as pretty as Sherlock but John wasn’t so shallow as to value someone just because of their appearance, though he definitely noticed it. You couldn’t compare Sherlock and Mary anyway. Sherlock wasn’t human, he was artificially perfect. Mary was just a normal woman, with flaws and beauties combined.

Sherlock was gone for days. Despite how deeply he missed his friend,  John went out with Mary every single night. She took his company as her right, already showing signs of wanting to be more than just a girlfriend, and he was beginning to think that moving on with a lady might not be a bad thing. Mary was blasé about men hitting on her, but nearly savage if anyone hit on John, but that just made his self-esteem puff up higher. _He was desirable. A real human person thought he was so fantastic that they couldn’t get enough of his time_ . It was brilliant. He didn’t tell her about Sherlock, didn’t tell her how he worked as an assistant, didn’t mention anything at all about his arrangement. John was uncertain how much Sherlock wanted the world to know about him, and until he was over his snit, John wouldn’t have a chance to ask him about it either. Things with Mary were going so well, and it had nothing to do with Sherlock at all. _John was succeeding at this relationship on his own_ . The next step was sex if she could manage to have it with him, and even if she couldn’t, John was pretty sure that he was falling in love with Mary Morstan. He put off asking for sex with her in case it made her end their new relationship too soon. It left him feeling guilty about his deal with Sherlock. _As long as he kept it in his pants, it wasn’t cheating. Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI - the posting of this chapter now pushes my word count on A03 to over 2 million. That's a lot of smut.


	5. Partnerships

Sherlock stopped in at the clinic five days later. He looked paler than usual, and somehow thinner, even though John knew that it wasn’t really possible. Sherlock just stayed looking like himself no matter what. Mary had been chatting with John, both of them lost in their conversation until John had looked up and right into Sherlock’s face as he stood alone in the small waiting room. It made John feel uncomfortable to witness the cyborg’s expression, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from Mary. He glanced at Sherlock again in time to see him begin to turn away slowly. There was hurt there, confusion, and something that reminded John uncomfortably of betrayal, then nothing. Sherlock blinked a single time, and just like that, his face became inert, dead looking.

It bothered John, but he said nothing to Mary. She still didn’t know about Sherlock, not exactly. She knew he had a demanding flatmate, but only that he was somewhat eccentric as well as brilliant. When John made it home that night, Sherlock was in the same blank state. The slim being sat on the sofa, his dead eyes unblinking as he stared forward blindly. John felt awful for a moment, then tried to tease Sherlock lightheartedly. “Sherlock, you can’t go around looking like  _ that _ . People are going to think you’re a zombie or something.”

“Emotions have become troublesome. I’ve shut them off.” Even Sherlock’s voice sounded hollow. There were no inflexions of any kind, just perfectly produced sounds. John’s heart sank.  _ This wasn’t good _ .

“Shut them  _ off? _ Why?” John knew  _ why _ but he refused to think about it. He was having a good time with Mary. She was the first woman he’d met in so long who thought he was worth anything. Just being around her made John feel spectacular.  _ Sherlock didn’t really have feelings, he just had echoes of feelings, right? If he could just switch them off, they weren’t real.  _ John’s rationale sounded false even to him, but he refused to pursue it further.

The cyborg didn’t answer “I need to recharge. Shall I just eat or shall I plug in?” Sherlock’s voice was hollow, his eyes still focused on nothing. He looked flat, two-dimensional, and just wrong.

John felt weird now because he was a little horny and it made him feel ashamed all over again. It had been days since they’d had sex, but with Sherlock sounding like one of the soulless, he wasn’t certain that he could get an erection, and then he felt guilty for thinking such a thing. He  _ was  _ kind of anxious, though, it had been quite a while since Sherlock and he had been together. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near as far as intercourse with Mary, it had been all winks and innuendo, nothing handsy even. Still, he knew that sex was good for Sherlock too, not just for making him feel nice for a minute, but that it actually made him function better for hours, sometimes days. They ought to have sex just for that, and not just because John enjoyed it. Still, he didn’t want Sherlock to hide away, so he tried some gentle coaxing, “Well, we could have sex if you want, but only if you switch your feelings back on. I’d rather see your reactions if that’s alright.” Sherlock blinked and all the animation in his body returned. It was as if an inner light had been switched on, and just as suddenly, John realised how intensely he’d missed his strange friend, despite all the distractions, “Hey, there you are. Why did you do that?”

“Emotions are complex, and not all positive. I was experiencing negative feedback, and I did not like it.” Sherlock was now standing up and gazing down at John, his expression one of intense concentration. Sherlock didn’t look happy but he didn’t explain further. He did say, “This is all of me, John. Is this what you want?”

“Yeah,” John’s voice was already growing gruff with arousal.  _ Sherlock was magnificent, beautiful, sexy, and despite how strong he was, completely at John’s command when they were in bed together. _ It was so hot, “So much better.” 

“If you’re  _ certain  _ John.” Sherlock kept it slow, drawing it out until John was almost exhausted. He sucked marks all over John’s body, especially on the inside of this thighs, and the sheer  _ possessiveness  _ of the act turned John on like nothing ever had before. When they joined, Sherlock nearly shoved himself onto John’s cock, riding him with almost decadent moans to express his pleasure. When they came, Sherlock managed to time it so that they came off together, and the interior pulsing of the cyborg’s body was the best thing John had ever felt. He fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms right after, but when he woke, he was alone in bed, his mobile on the pillow beside him with a dozen messages from Mary flashing in the darkness.

Sherlock didn’t go back to Baker Street for another week. He didn’t need to eat or sleep, he was running off the energy he’d gotten from intercourse with John. The messages from Mary had started at five in the morning the day he’d left, arriving regularly until the flashing notifications had driven him from John’s side. She kept calling him  _ sweetheart _ . He didn’t want to witness his John’s courtship with the human woman but he couldn’t stay away forever. John was correct, Sherlock did not own him, even if he wanted to be the only one in John’s bed. He needed to recharge properly, he had no safe designated space outside of the flat where he could offline for two hours, and all his connectors were at the flat. When his systems began to flag, Sherlock reluctantly returned home. His sensitive nose was immediately assaulted by a stench that made him want to gag. It smelled like arousal, stale sex, and semen. He felt his guts twist again, and his lips curled into an angry grimace. He stormed up the stairs and flung open the door to the flat, “Watson, we have already covered the parameters of our agreement, and this is most certainly  _ not  _ compliant. I can  _ smell _ her and it is disgusting.”

A blond and slightly curvaceous woman came out of the kitchen, her cheeks bright red, her lips obviously swollen from kisses. A much rumpled and equally debauched John stood there in the doorway looking stunned as Sherlock stared the woman down, “Where were you, Sherlock? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days now.”

“You.” Sherlock pointed at the interloper, “Out. This is my flat and I do not want it contaminated with the effluvia that is exuding from your nether orifices. By my calculations, you have taken no less than six lovers in the last week. I don’t really care what you do with your time but I  _ do _ care that you are leaving bits of it in  _ my  _ home!” The blush on the blond woman’s cheeks grew deeper, and her face twisted into an angry frown, “Don’t bother arguing.  _ Go _ . You are not welcome here.”

“Sherlock! Stop it!” John was angry but so was Sherlock.  _ How dare John bring someone here after being asked specifically not to? Did John not understand that this woman preferred sex without condoms and that his agreement specifically precluded such acts?  _ John couldn’t have forgotten so Sherlock came to a logical conclusion.  _ John wished to end his agreement with Sherlock _ .

He bit out the words, nearly snarling with contempt, “You can go with her if she’s that important to you, John. Consider yourself relieved of duty. Since you have clearly decided to terminate  _ your _ end of our arrangement, I have no need to fulfil mine.” Sherlock knew he was being overly dramatic but there was something about the woman that set his artificial nerves on edge.  _ He wanted her gone. Now _ . She had ruined  _ everything _ .

“Mary, maybe we can speak later.” John sounded apologetic, “I really need to sort this out.” The stench was so rank that Sherlock almost shut off his nasal receptors, wrinkling his nose instead, his lips pressed tightly shut.  _ How dull were human senses? _

“There is nothing to sort out, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock had never referred to John formally before. It seemed to upset the soldier but Sherlock didn’t let it stop him. “You have made you choice, now go.”John just stood there looking shocked and failed to move out instantly.  _ Was he not being clear? _

“John, you didn’t tell me you were  _ already _ in a relationship.” Mary sounded a little hurt, and it made Sherlock furious to see how quickly John turned to sooth her when the doctor obviously refused to see how he’d made Sherlock feel. Rage burned higher when she twisted the knife by adding a completely faked hitch to her words.  _ Mary was a charlatan! _ John fell for it completely as she whimpered dramatically, “I thought I was special, that I was the only one you were with.” John looked devastated, immediately moving to put his arms around her in comfort.

Sherlock spat his words out as if he were throwing knives. “Doubtful that you didn’t know  _ someone _ was in John’s life. You can pretend that I am some kind of mystery, but you certainly are not.” Sherlock let his eyes rake over her, standing tall, and  _ knew  _ he was beautiful. He let Mary feel the years she seemed to have on him. She was in her early thirties, still young, but he knew he was at the height of enviable youth compared to her, and he used every weapon at his immediate command, “Even in this day and age you are considered extremely  _ old _ to bear young, yet are unmarried though you would give anything to be. You have an ongoing tendency to cling onto that which is not actually yours. I contact John frequently at work, there is no way you would have missed  _ that _ fact, therefore you are being deliberately obtuse as well as provocative. I’m not surprised. In this society, you are verging on being stigmatised for your lack of fecund blessings, almost too old to become a  _ primigravida _ . You are bedding any fertile man you can convince to sleep with you. The number of lovers this week alone is impressive, I make no judgement but have to inform you that they have left you reeking of oestrus and dissatisfaction. You chose John deliberately, possibly both for his proximity as well as his aesthetic appeal. You were hoping that a little ‘accident’ could be arranged, possibly even today if your ovulation scent is correct, resulting in an unplanned pregnancy leading to a hasty wedding. You’re not choosy as to whom you wed, though you have definite goals of some sort, nor do you care _who_ fathers your hoped-for infant. John practically fell into your lap, and you wasted no time using whatever wiles you have left over to attract him. He came running, therefore off you go, both of you. John, return your key to Mrs Hudson on the way out. By your own actions, our agreement is at an end.”

John rolled his eyes and just showed Mary to the street. Sherlock fumed upstairs as he shamelessly listened to the doctor sooth his paramour, promising to call her later. Sherlock was further enraged when John offered her physical affection by way of a kiss. The second John returned, Sherlock began tossing John’s possessions at him, “Here is your paperback, your cushion, your cardigan, your left sock…” He ruthlessly began chucking all of it onto the sofa, “I want you gone within the hour. Go. Now.”

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving. My name is on the lease.” Sherlock stopped cold and clenched his fists. “You’re being ridiculous. You didn’t give Mary a chance at all…”

“CEASE.” Sherlock bellowed. He turned and glared at John. “We had  _ an arrangement _ . You have violated that arrangement and I am telling you to leave.”

“How? How did I violate it? I haven’t done anything you didn’t want me to do!” John knew he was in the wrong but he couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from spewing denials.  _ He’d liked Mary the second he’d gotten close to her, and hadn’t tried to resist for a second. She had shown up for work one day, and that was it for him, he was dazzled. He hadn’t questioned it for a moment. Coffee dates had become a daily thing, and the flirtations during their otherwise chaste dates had increased to bold enough levels that he had done exactly what Sherlock was accusing him of doing. _

Sherlock shouted out his feelings, using every possible twist of the knife he could fit in, deliberately attempting to wound John whilst also expressing his own almost unbearable feeling of separation and anguish.  _ John being with someone else was intolerable _ . “I  _ told _ you I didn’t want people in my flat if they weren’t clients. Did I tell you at any point that I thought it would be fine for you to  _ fuck _ someone else in my home? No, I did not! This entire place reeks of her cunt; she’s not particularly interested in  _ safe sex _ .” Sherlock used air quotes, making the already heavy sarcasm even angrier, “She wants a baby too much to be rational about her own health. I can smell the other men on her and I can smell what they’ve left in her. I can  _ smell _ her on you. If emesis were at all possible for me, I would be vomiting right now.” John was both red-cheeked as well as pale. His own fists were curled tight and Sherlock felt a sneer curl his lip, “You made your choice, John Watson. Go. Find the hole you prefer and lose yourself in it.”

Sherlock turned his back. In no way was it physically necessary but his hands were shaking as if in shock.  _ Humans reacted this way, not cyborgs. His transport had no reason to respond as if his nerves were experiencing a shot of adrenalin _ . His chest was heaving even though he didn’t need to breathe, or pant in a panic. Sweat beaded at his hairline. His hands began to ache when they’d never felt anything before. Pulling off his gloves he saw that the newly grown flesh on his hands had receded dramatically. Spots began forming in front of his stinging eyes and he realised he was going to power down.  _ How humiliating to once again be required to extract the converter he’d jerry-rigged for himself shortly after he’d arrived in this plane _ . His hands were still trembling so plugging himself in caused scratches on his ports, and it upset him that one little bit more that he couldn’t deal with.  _ John had decided to be with someone else, and Sherlock was just going to have to live with it _ . Some kind of condensation was leaking from his eyes, and he didn’t understand it. John was trying to talk to him but Sherlock merely pushed his adaptor into the wall socket and shut the world off. When he was finished his recharge cycle, he would be alone again.

John was confused when Sherlock came home. His burgeoning arousal had been entirely erased by a flush of guilty shame. He  _ had _ been worried for days, but not enough to do more than sending out a handful of not very urgent demands to know where Sherlock was. The new thing with Mary was nearly enough to make him forget his concerns completely, though she came close. The first scent of her tended to make him forget everything else. He liked her so much but he missed Sherlock, and when he was alone, worried after him. Teasing one another at work was a thrill, and it made John feel better about himself to know that someone thought he was witty and handsome, but there was no one besides Mrs Hudson to care for Sherlock, and so John fretted privately.

Mary distracted him when she flirted all the time, her eyes bright and sparkling. John couldn’t resist giving into her requests, not even the one where she asked to see his flat on Baker Street. He’d said yes immediately, ignoring the tiny voice in his head that told him he was being foolish. He was regretful because  _ now _ he knew how horribly he had hurt Sherlock. John felt like a reckless fool who had pissed all over something precious that he’d been given.  _ He was a cad. Sherlock had every right to be outraged. _ John had until now managed to not think about how he was breaking Sherlock’s rules for their home in order to satisfy himself. He hadn’t even  _ had _ sex with Mary yet, but it had been close. They had been making out in the kitchen and had been going at it pretty hard by the time Sherlock had made his dramatic return.

John regretted being so weak.  _ He could have gone to hers, at the very least. _ That wouldn’t have worked. He couldn’t hide having sex from the cyborg. Sherlock’s nose was superhumanly sensitive; he probably wasn’t lying when he’d declared that he could smell her, and the other lovers she theoretically had. That had stung a bit, but John  _ had _ been righteously furious, that is, until he saw Sherlock’s face. There were tears in the cyborg’s eyes, on his alabaster cheeks, even now when he was frozen in place and unmoving, glistening droplets hung on his lashes. There was heartbreak there, and grief as well. John was gobsmacked.  _ Sherlock cared for him, and John had callously trampled all over the cyborg’s now obvious feelings by ignoring his requests to be exclusively his. John had cheated on Sherlock without a second or even a first thought _ .

John decontaminated the flat while he waited for Sherlock to power back up. He took out the strongest cleaning solutions he could find and scrubbed every single surface Mary had touched or even gone near. The more he cleaned, the clearer his head became.  _ What had he been thinking? _ When he was done he stripped, put all his clothes in the hamper, and had washed from head to toe before changing into fresh kit, and throwing all the rest into the wash. He felt horrible because he’d ignored the little voice in his head sharply reminding him that he  _ had _ been cheating while he was doing it. He’d  _ promised _ Sherlock, who had been nothing but truthful and honest as well as extremely generous with John, and at the very first chance, he’d tossed everything Sherlock had freely given him aside, and all for coffee and a chance to get his leg over. Rebuking himself harshly, he sent out a long text and then blocked the same number.

Reliving the dismay in Sherlock’s voice when the cyborg had asked if he hadn’t given enough to John made him flinch.  _ No one in their lives had ever given John as much as Sherlock had!  _ All his new clothes were purchased because of Sherlock. All the food he ate was provided by Sherlock. The exciting and diverting life he led had been given to him by Sherlock. Sherlock was rude to all except John and Mrs Hudson, and compared to everyone else, the cyborg simply doted on both of them.  _ The comfortable and warm home he lived in for free was only available because of Sherlock, and the single proviso the cyborg had asked for was that John not brings people into their home unless they were clients _ . Even beyond the physical comfort, Sherlock was entertaining, interesting, and, quite frankly, the most amazing person he’d ever encountered! John was an arse for having brought Mary to Baker Street expressly  _ against _ Sherlock’s requests just to prove how independent he was. He wasn’t independent at all. If Sherlock hadn’t taken John in, he knew he would have expired already, dead of drink, hunger, or just from eating a bullet. There was only one thing left to do, and John would do it.

Sherlock came back to himself the second his transport had absorbed enough electrical energy to last him for days. The instant his eyes opened his body recalibrated itself and took in all possible data. He recorded temperatures, air pressure, calculated room volume, and trace elements noticeable in each inhalation _. John was still here _ , “I told you to leave, John Watson. Why are you still present?”

Sherlock inhaled once more and realised that all he could discern were industrial-grade cleansers and John. The flat smelled proper again, and was no longer ruined with  _ her  _ scent, “Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John was standing right in front of him, and his face was a picture of chagrined apology, “You are absolutely right to be mad at me. I broke our agreement without a thought, and I am sorry. I’ve texted Mary and told her that it can’t work between us, that I should have told her about you, that I am an utter churl, and that I am going to remain here. I made a promise to  _ you _ , and despite how poorly I’ve behaved, I still want to keep it. Please, forgive me?”

Sherlock was still angry and wasn’t so willing to be pacified, “You cannot be trusted, John Watson. The very first opportunity that came your way was all it took for you to betray my faith in you. You gave me your word, but your word is worthless.”

“It’s not  _ worthless _ !” cried John, “Let me prove myself, let me try to make it up to you?”

“How can you make up  _ trust _ ?” Sherlock snapped, “What happens to me if I trust you again? Any available vagina that comes near you is all that seems to be necessary to make you forget yourself.”

“That’s not true!” John had never felt so ashamed of himself _. Sherlock wasn’t exactly wrong. Even before Mary, John had made no effort to hide how he ogled women, or how easily he smiled after them, even if Sherlock had been standing right beside him _ . “You aren’t entirely wrong about me. I’m used to women. I’ve never made a commitment to anyone before, not really, and you’re right to be furious at me. I did break our house rules, and I admit it. I am very sorry for hurting your feelings, and all I want is to try and make things right. You’re my friend Sherlock, and I should have respected what was between us more.”

Sherlock turned away, “Go away, John.”

There was such anguish in Sherlock’s voice that John’s heart broke as well.  _ How could he have been so blind? _ Sherlock had loathed nearly everyone they had met, he got on with only a handful, openly like only John and Mrs Hudson, and he only ever had sex with John. Sherlock might literally be a machine but he had feelings, new and untouched ones. He’d grown up so much since John had moved in, maturing day by day, working so hard to learn how to fit in, to interact with everyone. He’d been nicer to John than to anyone, giving of himself unstintingly just as he’d promised to do, looking after John, and in his own strange way, making sure John was happy, healthy, and thriving. John had been a selfish and deliberately ignorant arse for not considering how Sherlock might be affected by his pursuit of a different relationship.  _ If Sherlock had been a woman, John would have been on bended knee to propose and beg for the hand of such a remarkable person, yet he passed Sherlock off as if he were nothing simply to see if he even liked Mary enough to date her more than once. _

_ How had it been so easy to break his word? _ Sherlock had asked for exclusivity right from the beginning, he’d been very clear about it, and yet, five more minutes alone with Mary would have seen John with his hands down her pants, and plans for more. “I can’t Sherlock. I need to fix this. I’m wrong and stupid, and just awful, and I admit it.” John realised that part of his eagerness to get with Mary had a lot to do with his inability to reconcile his feelings for Sherlock. He’d told himself to be casual about all of it, to enjoy it all because it was certainly fleeting, but how could he live without all of it now that he knew it was out there? _ Why had he risked losing late night chases, gun fights, minor kitchen explosions, and locked room mysteries?  _ He needed to sort things with Sherlock, he needed to figure out how to deal with having feelings for someone who wasn’t technically human.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” Sherlock’s voice cracked a bit.

John couldn’t help himself, “I am so sorry, I am! Please, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s narrow waist and hugged him tightly, rubbing his hand along Sherlock’s long lean back to calm him, “I’m yours, all yours, I promise Sherlock, I swear. I won’t ever do such a thing, not ever again, please, please, forgive me.”

Sherlock still felt very upset but he felt better once John had pressed his anxious body tightly against his still rigid one. John was so warm, and he smelled  _ right _ again, masculine, clean, earthy, and a little bit dangerous. “I  _ told _ you that you were mine before, and you still…” He was heartened by the good solid smells in the air, and the absence of unwelcome intruders. John had many qualities that Sherlock appreciated, and his solid warmth was one of them. John made him feel relaxed and centred. John had frightened him with the spectre of solitary existence, and he needed to cling to his small soldier as if he were a child holding its comfort toy. He felt weirdly ashamed but also more at ease with John in his arms.

“I won’t, I swear, I won’t wander again. I didn’t think things through, I didn’t think at all. It felt so good to be doing what I used to do, and I guess I got carried away with remembering the sort of life I used to have. I’ve dated a lot of women, well, for one night at least, and I know it excuses nothing, and probably makes me even less likely to be believed but Sherlock, none of them were anything like you, and I’ll never let myself forget that ever again. You are unique and miraculous, and out of this world. I’d be insane to let you slip out of my life. I’ll tell you how sorry I am for as many times as it takes if that’s what you want. I’ll even quit working at Bart’s if that makes anything better.” John’s face was earnest and sincere.

“ _ No _ _!_ Doctor Hooper has four diseased lungs she’s going donate to my research! If you quit, I can’t get them!”  Sherlock scowled down at John’s hopeful expression, “I’m still very angry with you, John Watson.”

“You have every right to be.”

“It might take me some time to entirely forgive you.”

“I don’t blame you a bit.”

“I might say cruel things from time to time.”

“I deserve it. I’ve been horrible for no reason.”

“I don’t want you seeing her again.”

“I’ve already broken it off with her _and_ blocked her number.” John offered up his mobile and Sherlock checked. John was telling the truth, so to show his approval, Sherlock deleted all of Mary’s old texts as well. “I’ll send a message to HR and do what I promised, and be there only for extreme cases instead of all the time. I’ll have practically no chance of seeing Mary if I do that. I’ve only ever run into her in the staff cafeteria, I don’t even actually need to go there, so I won’t. I might run into her again, but only at work, and there’s always going to be a tonne of people there to keep an eye out.”

Sherlock still felt out of sorts but every second that John rubbed his back made him feel better. “I clearly failed to meet all of your needs.” He couldn’t touch John the way John wanted to be touched. Sherlock loved it when John stroked them both with his clever talented fingers, and he couldn’t return the favour, not yet.  _ John was clearly tired of waiting, tired of making do, tired of getting off with replacement human _ .

His soft-voiced confession made John look devastated, “No, Sherlock! It was all me! I’m a greedy idiotic fool who was just…stupid. I’m sorry.” John rocked up onto his toes and offered Sherlock a kiss. Grudgingly, Sherlock allowed it, and the instant their lips met, he felt the ruffles inside begin to smooth away. “I’m sorry Sherlock, I am, I truly am.”

John kissed Sherlock again, and it was full of desperate apology. Sherlock felt his spirits smooth even more, especially when John’s hands began to wander widely, “I would have let you go if you really wanted.”

John shook his head hard, “No, don’t say that. Don’t let me go, I wouldn’t want to, not really. I don’t know what I was thinking, why would I ever…” John trailed off as he gazed at Sherlock, “I’m a fool, and I don’t deserve you, and I’m sorry. Please, let me try to make it up to you.” Sherlock didn’t feel very good about having sex with John right after John had lain with Mary, and his distaste clearly showed on his face. John swallowed hard, and he stepped back, his head hanging, “I understand. I know I’ve botched everything, and well…I’ll…I’ll…er…go upstairs then. Mrs Hudson changes the guest room sheets every week.”

“Was she better than me? Did she make you feel  _ more _ ?” Sherlock ran through his programming swiftly, searching for weaknesses in the calculations, examining his responses and abilities, trying to find the part where he’d failed to satisfy John enough to keep him from straying.

John looked aghast, “I…what? I haven’t slept with Mary! We kissed, today, we kissed for the first time today, and that’s as far as that went, and it will never happen again.” Sherlock was sceptical because Mary had definitely had sex with someone, and had smelled predominantly of John. “I didn’t! Look, you can check the beds, and the sofa, and everywhere. The sheets upstairs are what Mrs Hudson put on, they should smell freshly laundered, and probably a little bit like marijuana because Mrs Hudson has her soothers in the laundry room, and no one has been in our bedroom but you and me.”

Sherlock stalked through the flat, sniffing dramatically. He wrinkled his nose pointedly when he picked up Mary’s scent on the client chair, and again in the kitchen. John had done a creditable job eliminating Mary’s trace odours but as far as Sherlock was concerned, only a good burning would decontaminate everything enough. Still, he came across no traces of male-female sex anywhere in the flat, and grudgingly conceded that John had not bedded Mary.  _ Here, anyway _ . He made that point crystal clear because he’d been gone for an  _ entire _ week. John had plenty of opportunities to get naked with Mary, and Sherlock still couldn’t quite bring himself to trust his blogger intimately yet. He allowed John to kiss him one more time but then sent the much-chagrined soldier upstairs for the night while he lay in their bedroom by himself.

He didn’t need sleep but he also didn’t want to unpack his portable lab. He was confused about his situation with John and found that he missed the small man a large amount.  _ How had he failed his end of their agreement? Why had John found it necessary to seek another consort? _ Upset all over again, Sherlock turned to his side, back to the door, and shut his eyes. He kept himself in that position for the rest of the night, allowing his brain to sort through all of the data, storing it carefully in his mind palace for later.

The next morning, Sherlock made John get a blood test done. The soldier had obeyed without question, taking himself off to a clinic with Sherlock by his side, “I understand why you’re doing this, but I didn’t…”

“You kissed her, and then you kissed me. You  _ say  _ you didn’t sleep with her but I have no way of verifying that. This world is ripe with disease, for your own sake, you should be tested just to ensure you haven’t contracted something that needs either dealing with or managing. I cannot be infected by your diseases, but I don’t know that I am incapable of being a carrier. If you are infected, I could be infected. We need to know.”

John stopped protesting and presented his arm for the draw without flinching. Privately, John felt that he deserved all of Sherlock’s disbelief.  _ Why, if someone had broken their word to John, he wouldn’t even be thinking about trusting them again _ . He appreciated the tremendous amount of faith that Sherlock was already showing in him by allowing John ways to prove himself worth once more. “Whatever you want, Sherlock, whatever it takes.” Nothing would make him break his promise a second time. John’s word was all he had, and knowing he was the perpetrator of his own moral downfall was bitter. He’d do whatever he needed to do.

That seemed to please the cyborg. Sherlock’s eyes did a bit of a thing when he was happy inside, crinkling at the corners just a bit, his smile not obvious, but definitely present. If he wasn’t human, he was so close as to make no difference. John felt his insides warm as relief coursed through him. He had a second chance with Sherlock and this time, he wasn’t going to waste it. He’d made his choice and he knew right down to the centre of himself that it was the right one. Maybe it was crazy, but inside himself, John knew that the warm feelings he had for the strange being were more than friendship. He’d risked losing that, and he’d never risk it again. Sherlock was the most amazing thing to ever happen to John. His life had been bland and pointless for so long, and he’d never be satisfied unless he was with the one being who suited him best.


	6. Partners in Villainy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Moriarty has already proven that he's a less than honorable person. In a world where absolutely anything can be fairly traded for, he's become obsessed with the concept of just taking what he wants from anyone at all.

James triggered the storage unit silently. All of his tertiary assistants had been dismissed without explanation hours ago. No one had questioned the long transport container he had wheeled into the facility with him. No one would dare. As soon as the unit engaged, he sent a contact request, simply speaking out into the empty room, knowing his words would be delivered to his unseen partner. “Mary is dead.” There was a pointed silence, “I killed her. She’s dead, well, mostly dead. I want to keep her internal organs and her brain.” The silence continued, “She killed my…” James was scowling so fiercely that he couldn’t speak. “I had a…” _Mary had met him at home and had bragged to him proudly._ “He was…” His lovely little treat had been destroyed. She had cut him to pieces and had him thrown away. That tight sweet forbidden flesh was available for him to debauch no longer.

James had been so angry he hadn’t realised he’d killed his wife until he’d found he’d snapped her neck already, bitter rage making him feel white-hot inside. _He’d known about the boys she’d already killed but they had been one-night affairs, and nothing like his Sherlock._ As William, Sherlock had been perfect, his potential had been so astonishingly high. James had just known that Sherlock could have been trained to be the perfect half of a new dynamic that he was developing. James hated the equality of partnerships like his marriage to Mary. _Fuck perfect balance! Fuck being harmonious. Fuck all of it. He wanted unpredictable chaos. He wanted pain. He wanted to oppress, to subjugate, to dominate, to own, to fight, and to control a mind that matched his own. Mary was clever and devious but she wasn’t brilliant like Sherlock had been. She’d never be able to satisfy him, not even if he used her the way he’d used his boys. Now he could never achieve that perfect partnership because she’d taken Sherlock away forever_.

James let her container drop to the floor, fury still flowing through him but he let it pass. He missed Molly for a second, she was reliable and efficient. If she hadn’t run off, he could be calling her right now and making her deal with the aftermath. There was nothing to be done but to clean his own mess and get rid Mary’s corpse. It was time for his silent partner to weigh in so, emotionlessly, he reported his activities without prevarication. “She saw me with someone else, and she killed him out of jealousy. He wasn’t the first but he was important.”

He couldn’t see them, he never did. Their contact was always through a device of some kind, they seemed to be able to access anything near him. His partner never spoke to him directly, using a device that shaped their words out of the syllables uttered by dozens of other people. It made their conversations eerie and disturbing, but James had long since become accustomed to the weird prophetic effect. Today sounds burst from every sound producing object around him, the tones angry and sibilant. “Bring his body to me. I require it.”

James now knew that his secret _wasn’t_ a secret. His partner knew very well _who_ he’d been illicitly enjoying, and it made him uncomfortably aware of his own precarious position. His plans to use Sherlock’s body were primary, but secondary were his plans to infiltrate Sherlock’s home, to access the massive conduit of information that was available there because of Sherlock’s blood-relation. He hadn’t discussed his aspirations with his partner at all and knew that they would certainly not appreciate his attempts to gain power without them. Repercussions were a certainty, and numbly he knew he had to accept it. James knew he was insane but his partner literally operated on an entirely different and much higher level of crazy. Lies were pointless. “I can’t. He’s gone, really gone. Hooper stuck what was left of him inside the latest toy model and ran away through the Gate.”

“Use Mary. Put her into an older model, reprogram her, and send her through the gate and bring him to me!” The words were hard and demanding. “Bring him to me as soon as you can. Him specifically . Do not fail. I require whatever original organic components are left.”

“She’s mostly _dead!_ If I reanimate her, there’ll be nothing left but motor reflexes and muscle memory! It’s not like I planned to harvest her. Her heart stopped nearly an hour ago. You know what that means. Her neural network has already been damaged beyond recovery.”

“Perfect. Implant the order. Bring him back by any means necessary. Infiltrate his new life any way she can and make them cross back, all of them. This works well with my existing experiments to test the return of our creations via the Gate. I am pleased.”

Moriarty didn’t realise that he’d felt a twang of unease until he’d been reassured. He’d never had anything but a perfectly cordial relationship with his partner, but he was also acutely aware of how complex retaliations could manifest without warning. He both loved and hated that he couldn’t quite predict the reactions during a different situation. One of the stipulations had been the _hands-off_ agreement regarding the Holmes family so here came the sticky part. He had to confess, even if he knew his partner already knew. If he didn’t just tell him, the consequences would be so much worse and they were likely to be pretty awful already. “It was _The Younger_.”

There was dreadful silence. “Our agreement was for you to not interfere.” Sounds hissed from all over. There was anger, cold and threatening. This was a silence that said much and promised pain.

“He came to me.” James protested instantly, “I didn’t seek him out.”

“ _Sophistry_.” Moriarty tried to remain cocky, his natural instinct to provoke the stronger predator into a potentially lethal battle nearly overwhelming his opposing instinct to remain alive. The visceral part of his brain kicked in and silenced his protests while his partner made him wait for judgment. “You will send Mary through the gate immediately. You will bring them back here as expeditiously as you can.”

James didn’t argue, even if he was nearly spitting with rage. His partner controlled too much saw too deeply and was aware of far too many layers in too many areas. Defiance was suicide. Angrily, James programmed an older model toy to accommodate his partner’s request. With some satisfaction, he stuck in Mary’s organs and ruthlessly programmed her to be crude but effective. She would be endlessly hungry for sex because she’d need to live off of it. That was the programming flaw in one particular line of models, once you triggered them, they wanted more and more and more until they burned out, or accidentally killed their owner from fatigue. The new ones didn’t have that same flaw, but he hadn’t had time to test this generation out for other weaknesses.

James enjoyed a mean spirited smile as he thought about Mary now being forced to seduce man after man to keep herself going until her programming was satisfied, and she wouldn’t get that feeling until she brought his missing lover back here. It was petty and spiteful but it was the last bit of revenge he could get on a woman who had not only aggravated and annoyed him with her endless quest to ignore his preferences to suit her own, but who had also stymied his business opportunities with her endless demands for more, and _now_ she had infringed on his personal pleasures. He had been easy on her for far too long. Sometimes he regretting forcing her father into letting him wed Mary, but once he’d found the hidden reports, he hadn’t been able to resist using Mary in order to gain power and influence. He loved his work, and his connection to Mary had made all of it possible. It was his nature to use, and to use, and to use until he destroyed something. That was his programming flaw, one he was born with. His partner knew him well and understood implicitly what James had needed and had not judged him for his unusual desires.

As ordered, James took a pre-grown low-grade blank from storage and embedded it with Mary’s remains. He waited until she’d matured fully before he took her to The Gate, and since she was a basic model, it barely took an hour before she was as ready as she would get. She looked less refined than normal, but he just gave a good enough shrug and got on with it. His wife had always delighted in luxurious fashions and extravagant indulgences. She had squandered huge portions of their wealth purely for the delight she took in strutting her success in front of people who were nowhere near as fortunate. Mary was as unbalanced as he was, worse, since he’d never been officially diagnosed, but she had. That’s why he’d stipulated a no-procreation agreement as part of their marriage and her family was powerless to object. Their genetic material was so flawed it was almost ban-worthy. He couldn’t begin to predict how combining the two bloodlines would degrade the overall genome.

James was feeling petty. He’d never been able to lash out at Mary while they were together, so he took his shots now, her complete inability to stop him part of his perverse pleasure.  James did a spot of research in order to prepare her for a life that would be anything but pleasurably easy. She’d have to work for it. Mary was dressed in clothing that had been designed to match the society he was about to fling her into. “Locate and return Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. Do whatever you need to do to infiltrate his life. Bring them back through the Gate as soon as possible.”

Brutally he shoved her through the Gate, grateful to see the back of her for a while. Being wed to Mary had been the least enjoyable thing he’d done in his life, even if the net gain had been extraordinary. _He wanted his street boy back, his tight, lovely, perfect little Sherlock. Ironic that Mary was being sent to fetch his preferred lover back, but that was life for you_ , “She’s gone.” He reported tonelessly, “All that’s left to do is wait.”

Mary Morstan did not like waking up in a new realm. She remembered only a bit about why she was there, the commands burning their way deep through her neural network, only her name came easily to her lips, her name and two others. Everything else had been cored out of her, leaving a dreadful emptiness behind, a hollowness masked in a pretty container. Her orders drove her. She needed to find _Sherlock Holmes_ and _Molly Hooper_ , whoever they were, and now. Mary walked for a long time, not knowing where to begin. Watching people helped. She learned quickly through observation, not thinking it strange at all that she knew nothing at all.

Eventually, Mary sat on an empty bench and thought. _She needed information and resources._ Somehow she knew that her culture was built on the buying and selling of the fruits of your labor or your body and that she had nothing but her flesh right then. _Easy choice._ Her flesh was nothing more than a vehicle. She felt nothing for it, and only a vague impression that perhaps she once had. Mary made her way to a location that seemed to have an unusual density of bodies.

She watched. People moved individually, or in groups of two or more. Pairs were very often intimate with one another in subtle ways. She took it all in, sorting and categorising all of it for later use. Everyone was moving in oddly rhythmic ways, and she realized that they were dancing. She could smell fermentation and understood that she’d located a social gathering. Pheromones hung heavy in the air, and it was simple enough to begin producing her own, the intensity of it at her command. Tentatively she tried a weak broadcast. A few smiles earned her a free drink, a dance earned her an invitation to go elsewhere, and an hour later she was walking out onto the street, her lips red and swollen from the act she’d just participated in, and a handful of bills in her pocket. _Success_. Energy filled her, and she roamed freely one more.

Mary used the funds she’d obtained to gain entry into yet another social establishment, and there, she worked the crowd until she found another person willing to give her currency in exchange for the use of her flesh. It was agreeable, and Mary found that she quite enjoyed being slammed against a filthy bathroom wall while a strange man grunted and thrust between her well spread legs. Being entered felt delightful, and she experienced a tremendous pleasurable surge when the man ejaculated into her. She felt her body come to life, her limbs growing fractionally stronger, and her mind began to operate with greater efficiency. _Clearly sex was an advantage_.

If she remembered nothing else, Mary knew how to make advantages work for her. This was just one of the many tools she had at her disposal, and she understood that there was a ruthless part of herself that was as irrefutable as her very name. It seemed that this society attached shame values to intercourse, and she learned to manipulate that quirk as quickly as she learned to manipulate her body, expanding her skills on an hourly basis. Women were as easy to pull as men, oral sex was marvellous, but semen was a useful payoff that the other gender couldn’t offer, so by preference, Mary now always chose males for her dalliances. She used their own awkwardness and social ineptness against them. It was ridiculous to deny a basic need based on gender, but since it allowed her to gain the capital she needed very quickly, she wasn’t going to fuss about it.

The benefits of sex wore off every few hours. Mary found herself constantly searching for another social event, capitalizing on places like clubs, and interestingly enough, houses of worship, using the desperation or anguish of others to secure her next partner in exchange for cash. It was good enough _temporarily_ but Mary needed more. She had to establish herself and that meant finding a patron. General broadcasts of her pheromones attracted many suitors. She chose a consort from among them carefully, this time picking a man who admitted to living alone and convincing him that inviting her to his bed would result in an experience he’d never forget. Mary delivered and spent the rest of the dark hours earning her keep.

His ejaculate was exactly what she needed, and she coaxed him into three whole rounds of rather brilliant sex before he needed to sleep. She’d noted that if her partner managed to have sentimental feelings for her, even brief ones, the recharge lasted longer. She’d quickly learned to see each partner’s secret needs and play to them until she could manipulate sexual encounters that left her recharged for nearly half a day. Mary lay beside this one on the bed, letting him rest while her mind whirling faster and faster.

She used the man’s tableside device to further familiarize herself with the world. She used the internet to answer questions about mobile phones, credit cards, and housing. Tapping a thoughtful finger on her teeth Mary evaluated her situation once more. Mary understood in a distant way that her job was as a trapper and not a hunter, though killing would be much easier, and quicker besides. It would be enjoyable too. She needed a great deal more currency in order to establish a place to situate herself while she searched for Sherlock Holmes. She’d found his name online, and needed to come up with a plausible way to get to him, and to _Molly Hooper_. New information floated up from somewhere in her mind on occasion. She had an impression of delicacy and kindness but for some reason, it made her fists curl up, and even when she uncurled them, her fingers kept clawing at the blankets. She read.

Eventually, she realized that the man’s laptop was just as easy to use and easier to read off of. She spent the rest of his unconscious hours absorbing as much data as she could. When he showed signs of waking, she crawled back into bed, and seduced him awake, gleefully glutting herself on his body, taking in his essence eagerly. When he bid her farewell after a long-drawn-out goodbye kiss, she stole his credit card from his wallet. With that, she secured funds to pay for false identification. She discarded his card as soon as she could, flirting her way into a sexual situation with the man behind the counter of the government office, his office door barely closed enough to muffle his moans as Mary rode him hard on his small sofa. Through him, she obtained official looking IDs and four days worth of accommodation. He was lusty, but she didn’t mind. His affection made her stronger.

Legitimate identification in hand, Mary set herself up. A series of well-managed repeat encounters got her a great deal of currency, a secure bank account, a credit card of her own, an introduction to anal sex by a high ranking member of the judicial system. She filmed it and learned that blackmail was _also_ pleasurable and fun. With his influence and insider knowledge, Mary managed to secure a very cozy flat for next to nothing a month and began plotting how to best hurt Sherlock Holmes without laying a finger on him. She still let her sponsor come by for regular rounds of sex, just for the boost, and because it saved huge amounts of time out of her day not needing to seek a lover. She had refined her ability to broadcast pheromones and practiced catching one specific target at a time to sate her endless needs.

After finding Holmes, it didn’t take much observation before Mary realised that Sherlock was _particular_ about his flatmate. The second she targeted the small sandy-haired man most often at Sherlock’s side, she knew she had a way in. She trailed everywhere after him, taking lovers wherever she could find them, shagging anyone who was willing to step into an alley with her for long enough to orgasm with, and then continued learning everything she could about Sherlock. Soon enough, word got around, and a complement of rough looking street toughs began to seek her out. She used them all, allowing them to fuck her anywhere private enough, trading her cunt and her arse for cash as well as information. Sometimes they just wanted her mouth, and she was fine with that too, sucking the truth from them with just as much ease. She went back to her flat on occasion, renewing her intimacies with her key supporters before returning to central London.

Sherlock’s pet was a man named John Watson, a doctor as well as an ex-soldier, and Mary knew once again how to best aggravate the detective. Mary didn’t know why it was so important to her to wound Sherlock before bringing him home, but it compelled her as definitely as her built-in commands did. She still wasn’t exactly certain how to get Holmes and Hooper to the Gate _together_ as well as unharmed, but with John as leverage, she might have a sliver of a chance.

John was pathetic, lonely, and not entirely immune to her charms, though he definitely resisted at first. She flirted with him the same as she did with other men, but it only earned her free daily coffee. In frustration, Mary began to allow her pheromones to saturate their workplace. It made it difficult to pretend that every sexually capable man who scented it would want to have sex with her wasn’t exciting, but it was so worth it to watch John Watson’s self-esteem begin to grow fatter, making him stupid and trusting. _Sherlock was clearly bottoming for the small man, why, she’d take him up the arse too if it got her what she needed, and what she needed was to get her targets delivered_.

It seemed that the street-toughs sometimes worked for Sherlock, his eyes and ears on the street. Mary allowed herself to be used by an entire group of them, all of them fucking every part of her they could penetrate, filling her with so much come that she could have gone without sex for an entire week. She got to experience having her vagina stretched over two cocks at once, and she liked it. She rode another man’s cock while someone fucked her arse, and she liked that too. She wasn’t ungrateful, especially after her willingness and excellent performance were obtained for the paltry fee of spying on Baker Street for her. Mary paid in uninhibited sex, and her watchers were content with their arrangement. She gathered her data and played John like a game.

Sherlock found out about her. She’d played the game too hard, and pushed in all the wrong spots. She hadn’t considered that Sherlock would just _leave_ John, so she made sure to end their first face-to-face encounter in such a way that John went running right back to his master like the good dog he was. John was so predictable. Mary was not. Her orders were to retrieve Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper alive. John Watson wasn’t on that list. Mary smiled. _She would bring Sherlock Holmes back in one piece. A broken heart didn't show up on any sort of scan._ _This was going to be fun_.

Alarms went off in Lestrade’s office again, but this time Donovan simply leaned over her bosses’ inert body and read the reports off to him. She knew he would hear and absorb her words, and that his link between realities would enable him to try and repair the latest breach at the other end. Still, this was the second violation in less than twenty-four hours, so Donovan followed protocol and contacted her boss's’ spouse, “Mr. Holmes, I am calling to inform you that a second alarm has sounded. Another blank.”

“Understood. Ready my chair. I will be with you shortly.” It was an unusual marriage, but a strong one. Sally Donovan didn’t hesitate to link the second projection chair to the first. As husbands, their link to the other plane could be shared, and they had done so several times. She didn’t like Mr. Holmes but she didn’t need to. He cared for her boss, and that’s all that mattered. Once he linked with Lestrade, they would become more powerful than either could be alone, safer, and more likely to return unharmed.

Everyone stood tall when Mr. Holmes arrived. He was a preeminent person, and even if they didn’t care for him personally, his position and skills were to be respected. His great love for their DI was obvious as he checked his husband’s silent body over carefully before allowing himself to sink into his Chair. Without a word, Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to flee.

He opened his eyes to a disturbingly geometric room. Everyone in this reality tended toward squares and sharp angles, and it was jarring at first but he quickly adapted. He checked his body over quickly and ran through the acquaintanceship protocols in his borrowed mind. He didn’t invade deeply and sensed a core of dark secrets that made him curious, but he didn’t have the time right then, and besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have secrets of his own, ones that he wouldn’t repeat even to himself if he could help it, nor his reality-counterparts. Exactly like Gregory, Mycroft could intertwine his sentient mind with his parallel self seamlessly. His alternate self wryly activated a communication device, and with a warm heart, Mycroft heard his husband’s voice, “Myc?”

“It’s me, my love.” Their personalities sorted themselves out and the earth primary receded easily into the background, allowing Mycroft to take control, “Have you found Doctor Hooper?”

“I forgot I was looking, actually.” Greg sounded chagrined, “I slipped under the veil. Time moves differently here, a lot has gone by already.” Gregory slipping beneath the veil was a bit worrying. Sometimes the primary could overwhelm a secondary presence. Gregory could have been lost to him if not for their bond. Gregory had responded the second he’d heard his husband’s voice, the veil falling away completely, but there was a throb of pain. “Sweetheart…I’m not sure how to tell you this. The blank…it’s Sherlock. He’s here. He’s thriving. I know him, actually. He’s as much of a shit as you thought he’d be, but he’s got a friend…a partner. Human.”

Shock silenced Mycroft. _His baby brother was here and inside a blank. That could only mean that his corporeal self had been destroyed._ _By whom? Why? How? When?_ He was tempted to go back to his reality to check the veracity of Greg’s statement but satisfied himself by issuing orders via his chair. Anthea would find Sherlock, or confirm his passing. She’d learn everything there was to learn about the situation. Mycroft could depend on it. He held his grief and despair at bay, disciplining himself to patience. He needed to learn more.

“Darling? I’m so sorry, love, I know this is everything you’d hoped to avoid.” Greg hesitated, “He’s a great man, nearly a good person too, just the way you hoped he’d be when he grew up.”

“You know him? How?” _Interesting_. Mycroft was very interesting in how connections were made. Some called it fate but they knew that in the overall order of things, certain elements naturally fell together on a grand scale, so no matter what the reality construct might manifest, basic things remained constant, such as he and Gregory being paired together in some fashion in over ninety percent of all visited realities, or the fact that he would be plagued with an annoying and aggravating little sibling who would always, always, always find some way of becoming the center of conflict. Some things were inconsistent, but overall, Mycroft knew the general shape that his personal history took. This was the beginning of the worst of it, it always was, and with a sigh, he got on with it. He had no idea how it would play out this time, but he regretfully accepted that it would be bloody. No matter how he tried, every single manifestation of Mycroft Holmes that echoed through the dimensions had failed to keep those nearest and dearest to him completely safe. Even his beloved Gregory would be wounded, but they both knew and accepted it. There was no fighting the larger pattern of reality, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for his opponent.

“I work with the bugger. He’s an aggravating piece of work, but brilliant. He’s blended in perfectly, no one has any idea that he’s not human. Like I said, he’s got a partner, small little fella, full of surprises. They solve crimes with me, believe it or not. Hooper is here too. She’s lost all her previous memories, and her presence has been absorbed by this reality but it’s a strain. Her alternate died as an infant. She wasn’t supposed to exist here, so there were a lot of adjustments to be made, same with Sherlock. His alternate is…” Gregory silenced himself, “You won’t talk about it, but when you first found out that someone was calling themselves Sherlock Holmes you went ballistic. You’ve got every inch of his street bugged. His name seems to be the only thing he recalls from our world.”

Grief tore at his bond for a minute before he was able to redirect the pain. Gregory helped, as he always did, soothing away Mycroft’s misery, lifting him above it, solidifying the anchorage he provided, and allowed Mycroft to collect himself enough to speak in a dry emotionless manner, “Our introduction will be a bit of a shock. I am established here?” He heard Gregory laughing over the device, and now felt his mate’s amusement. “What?”

“ _Minor position in the government_ , that’s what you call it. You’re a consulting politician, sort of. You work for the government of this country, but also several other countries. You’re on call for the worst problems, the stickiest most delicate situations, and you whisper in the ear of every significant person in this civilization. You’re kind of an arsehole, actually.”

“Thank you, my love. That’s what I do.” Mycroft was modest and hoped Gregory was just teasing him. He was a peacekeeper by nature but his species was anything but peaceful. Altercations and violence were inevitable, but by his efforts, and the efforts of others, he kept the damage to the absolute minimum. It was an imperfect system as yet, but it improved generation after generation. It seemed that this civilization was even more warlike than his and that they’d perfected several darker arts to favor conquest and victory over mental advancement and societal evolution. Their sciences were primitive too, barely touching on concepts that were long in his world’s distant past. _Why, the technology he was currently using would be seen as magic or spiritual intervention. He’d be regarded as a god, some kind of officious deity who imposed a dry order upon their chaos. He’d never do it, but he could_. In the back of his shared mind, the idea of being all-powerful was being admired. Mycroft sighed. Clearly, in this realm, he was at polar opposites when it came to personal values. Each plane had their variations, and he had to accept them all, just as they were compelled to accept him.

“We’re not married here but we do shag. That’s what they call _mating_.” Mycroft’s integrated brain felt the crudity of the word his husband snickered out and he felt his cheeks heat, “I’m your dirty little secret.”

“Gregory Lestrade Holmes!” remonstrated Mycroft instantly, “I cherish and adore you above all others, I would never…” His marriage to Gregory was his peak achievement, the height he could never best no matter what other feats he performed. If allowed, Mycroft would have made a point of telling every single being they encounter that they two were wed and that it made him, every minute, the happiest of men. Their love for one another made them stronger. Their perfect unity brought bliss not only to themselves but allowed them to be more successful at their work, bringing happiness to others. _Who would ever want to sully that or keep it silent?_

His husband was laughing loudly now, “No, no, no sweetheart, that’s just how it is here . If you can believe it, people still can’t accept that same-sex relationships are perfectly fine. Apparently, in your field of expertise, it’s actually considered some kind of weakness.” _What? Ridiculous! Love-bonds were extraordinarily powerful; gender was never a consideration, nor were political considerations. Why some of the most moving histories were records of how entire countries backed out of political arrangements if one of the intended truly loved another! That’s what had led to so many successes, the happiness, and contentment of the people, not their despair and anger_. “You’re from a high ranking family and you have an important job, I come from a different background so my value is weighed in a different manner. People like you and I aren’t supposed to even meet, never mind sneaking around for hot sweaty…” Gregory went on for a minute or two, reminding Mycroft of some rather delicious moments they’d shared both in their reality, and apparently in this one, “So, you have to keep me secret because otherwise your enemies will do nothing but annoy me day and night, but I think that just makes it more exciting.”

Mycroft sighed. His husband was so vital, so alive. He took such joy in each new experience they shared, his devotion to their marriage never once faltering no matter how it expressed itself in alternate realities. “You are a slave to your baser instincts, my darling.” The back of his mind almost flinched. _Was love such a problem to this self of his?_

“You love my baser instincts. Get over here, we need to talk face to face.” Mycroft spent another hour familiarizing himself with this new world and how it worked. He examined his influences, and though it was much more ponderous, he began to engage his resources in order to minimize the shock of what he was trying to do. When he was done as much he was able, he called his assistant in to bring him to his husband. He noted that everyone who worked closely to his position did so with fearful respect. _Indeed, his self here was very different_. Gregory met him on the street outside a shabby building, “Wait for it.”

A commotion was heard, and then Mycroft watched as a tall, slim, handsome adult male swept from the doorway followed by a small angry looking man who walked in a particular way that he now recognized as post-military. He could barely pay attention to the man, he was too busy looking at Sherlock. The blank that he’d been smuggled away in was mature already, and privately Mycroft grieved some more for the years that his little brother would never experience, those developmental stages he would never go through, and the long and likely lonely life he would lead. _Toys had no expiry date. As long as his internal batteries were capable of being recharged, he would live unless someone deactivated him_. Mycroft was already in his fourth decade and looked forward to the other ten he could expect, but Sherlock, Sherlock could live for hundreds of years, if not thousands. It broke Mycroft’s heart to know that all the protections he’d attempted had failed so spectacularly. Without realizing it, he moved forward, “Sherlock.”

  



	7. Brother Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has been called to deal with a situation that filled him with both dread and horror, but what could he do now that he knew the truth?

The tall man stopped dead in his tracks. His motions were elegant, appearing almost practised, and Mycroft realised, they were! This entity would have needed to _practice_ seeming human, would have needed to learn how humans move, how they communicated, how they did everything. He’d clearly succeeded. The stop was so sudden that the sandy-haired man behind him actually crashed into his back, but Sherlock didn’t budge at all. It was then that Mycroft understood that what he had feared was true. _Sherlock’s body had been destroyed, his brother was now a living toy, and that everything he’d done to save his brother from being exposed to the perils of the world had been for nought._ Sherlock was blinking rapidly and stopped moving completely. The small man came around and stood in front of Sherlock, his shoulders a bit hunched, and his dark blue eyes flat and mean. His voice was gruff and filled with menace as he asked, “Who are you? What have you done to Sherlock?” _Protective. Possessive. Aggressive. Danger_.

Mycroft was flummoxed. _He hadn’t prepared for this at all. The body he was controlling had a powerful fight or flight reflex that he was struggling to subdue. The small man was a clear and present threat if triggered and yet Mycroft wanted to attack his brother! Why?_ They were standing right out in the open where anyone could hear them but no one seemed to be listening, “My name is Mycroft, Mycroft _Holmes_.” He stressed his last name on purpose and the small man’s expression grew both more surprised but also angrier, “I am Sherlock’s…brother.” The self inside raged, infuriated. _Why?_ He asked himself again. Mycroft wondered for only a moment before a dreadful truth was revealed to him. He slammed the information into a holding cell in his mind. _He couldn’t deal with that now. He needed to manage it later, after this very important introduction_.

“ _Brother?_ How is that possible? Are you the…” here the small man cast his gaze around, looking for eavesdroppers but no one was close, “Are you…like him?” Mycroft focused once more, examining the man carefully.

 _So, the doctor knew Sherlock wasn’t human and was still loyal, fierce, one might even say_. “Perhaps this is a discussion best conducted elsewhere.” Mycroft’s mind was synched with Mycroft2 and there was rage hidden there. Seeing Sherlock had caused the _other_ to react with near violent rage and shock. Mycroft set it aside and fished out more immediately useful information. “There is somewhere we can go where privacy is guaranteed.” Sherlock slowly moved but only after the blond man put his hand on his arm, “You are?”

“Sorry, Myc, this is Doctor John Watson, Sherlock’s…”

“Blogger. He’s my blogger.” Mycroft looked closely at the blank in front of him, though it wasn’t blank anymore. It was fully matured in every way. It’s… _his_ …voice was deep and full of nuance. The fluting tones of his youth were long gone and had settled into a rumbling baritone that Mycroft still recognised. He sounded so much like Papa. It was him. It was Sherlock.The model was remarkably human-looking, even if you knew he wasn’t technically alive. His eyes were perhaps the most doll-like quality about him, that and the eerily graceful way that he moved. Sherlock was already unlike any of the toys that Mycroft had seen before. “You are my brother?”

“In a way.” Mycroft wasn’t sure how to explain it further and was reluctant to do so in the open. “Come with us. We wish you no harm, only to offer you information within a secure space.”

John Watson kept his body between them and Sherlock. Mycroft was bemused because if someone needed protecting, the humans in the group had nothing on the container that held the remains of his little brother. _Did they know that his body would self-repair, that it was adaptable to nearly any energy source, and that it was modifiable? Sherlock could easily lift any of the transport units around them, and spring upward far enough to reach a second, even a third story window? Probably not. Sherlock wouldn’t have been cognizant when he crossed over. There was no one here who could have filled anyone in on his specs, no one except Doctor Hooper, and clearly, she had not done so. It was possible that they’d fallen prey to transfer-induced amnesia. It happened to agents occasionally, a reason to always have someone at the ready to pull you back, to remind you of who you were._

Doctor Watson was eyeing him suspiciously, and still behaving in a curious manner that reminded Mycroft of the primates that still lived in several locations around his world. It occurred to him that this society really was much less sophisticated than his world was and that since they preferentially chose war over peace, that this man was likely an actual soldier of some kind or a caretaker. The sandy-haired man seemed to exude a confusing mix of signals, but Sherlock simply sat there, peacefully gazing out the window, clearly trusting the smaller man to keep an eye out. Despite the casual appearance he still said, “What am I?”

“I will tell you presently.” Mycroft nodded his head toward the driver, and Sherlock surprisingly subsided. At home, Mycroft could barely get a word in edgewise when young Sherlock wanted to know something or have something, his chatter taking one logical leap after another but at a pace that was impossible for most people to follow along. This _John_ character seemed perfectly at ease beside the construct, and Mycroft’s curiosity and concern grew substantially higher.

The club they ended up at was strange to all of them. Mycroft and Gregory both shared memories of the place which offered a safe haven in which they expressed their desire for one another in complete privacy. That privacy was what they needed to utilise. They were swiftly guided through the maze of hallways until they were delivered to the rooms that were set aside for Mycroft’s personal use. They would easily fit twice their number and were comfortably appointed. The second the door was shut, Mycroft began. “As I’ve said, I am Mycroft Holmes. I am…was…Sherlock’s brother by blood.”

“Was? What do you mean, _was_?” The small man was sharper than he looked, and far more threatening up close than he’d seemed on the street.

“I am not from _here_ and neither is this Sherlock. By here, I do not mean the United Kingdom, nor any country on this globe. This will be difficult to accept but there are other planes of reality, other worlds so to speak, but we all live in the exact same space at the exact same time. We are separated by *****,” Mycroft tried again, “By dark matter…well no, not at all, not even remotely, but apparently, that’s the closest concept your kind is aware of that comes to understanding how to pass from one to the other. You have so much further to go.”

He sighed and thought for a minute, “There are things that are similar to doors to put it crudely. Some people can feel them. I can. Gregory can. Sherlock might have been able to, we’ll never know now.” Regret coloured his voice but he continued, “Let me put it this way. Our realities are very similar, incredibly similar, and these doors connect them. Our similarities only vary because of a single decision somewhere in our respective pasts, a decision that prompted each of our civilisations to develop for different purposes. We follow the same general paths, will or have discovered the same sorts of things, but at different rates. In my world, technology is astonishingly advanced compared to this world, and because of that, it is possible for us to create artificial replicates, or toys. Sherlock is one of the most advanced models ever designed, frankly, I’ve never seen one as elegant or well made as he. Most replicates are made of donated materials that have been reformed into unique entities, each generation more refined than the last.”

Now Mycroft sighed again, “Sherlock, when he was on the other side, somehow became involved with a rival of sorts. How it was done is unknown as yet. He was, in essence, murdered there, resurrected into this form, and then brought over. The paths that led to this happenstance are complex. In our world, organisations build themselves up through family ties. Marriages are important for stability, for instance, over there Gregory and I are wed.” John snorted with amusement but kept listening, “This means our respective jobs become that much more powerful because we share our resources, combining them to make us stronger together. This basic concept guides all our practices. Sherlock is now an amalgam of the very best to be distilled from what our world has to offer, but he cannot remain here. He did not come here by choice, indeed, the circumstances of his arrival were…brutal. This reality thrives on such brutality but ours does not. If he was meant to be here, then this reality will find a way to explain his existence. If not, then ****.” Mycroft made an impatient sound, and muttered the word _destiny_ with scorn, “The threat to this world is thus: If anyone discovers Sherlock’s true nature, it is more than likely that they will forcibly obtain knowledge from him, and warp that information in order to weaponize it. Your society is in no way mature enough to deal with the implicit possibilities residing inside Sherlock’s casing and the likelihood of self-induced extinction lies somewhere 98 and 98.6 % certainty. Shall we allow this or should we bring Sherlock home?”

Greg added the final piece, “We need Molly Hooper too, she’s not the same kind of problem, but if we leave her behind then we leave her at risk. She wasn’t meant to be here any more than Sherlock was. Reality will have tied itself into knots coming up with ways of validating her presence, I mean, she’s a got a regular job and an advanced medical degree! That shouldn’t be possible for a woman who didn’t exist on this plane a year ago. She’s from our world, but she’s here _physically_ , whereas Myc and I are just sort of mentally here.” Lestrade looked distracted for a moment and sounded apologetic when he spoke a moment later. “I’m getting updates from my assistant on the other side. They’ve reviewed several hours worth of facility activity. Sherlock was, for all intents and purposes, murdered at the facility where Doctor Hooper once worked.”

“No. Not by Molly! Not possible. She works with me.” John interjected, “She runs the lab I’m employed at. She did not kill Sherlock! How can she be from over there but still have a job like that here?”

“ _Reality finds a way!_ That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. That’s how it works. Time is not an unchangeable thing. It is malleable, flexible, but only so much! That’s why delicacy is required. What you perceive as real is merely your brain translating the data that you perceive around you. You are one tiny organism, and the universe is a massive one. To protect itself, the universe can modify itself to heal tears and crossovers. Sherlock and Molly can exist here, other beings from other dimensions can exist here because the universe will alter itself in some way to accommodate it, if it’s necessary, it will find a way to balance for as long as it is sustainable. That’s part of the danger. You can push and push, and push changes on a universe until it is so unstable that deleting it entirely is better for all of existence than allowing that plane to go on. There are too many of us here, we need to go back. _Here and now_ Molly is your friend and coworker _,_ back there, she’s the one who saved Sherlock’s life, put him inside this casing, and brought him here. Doctor Hooper worked for a very particular company in our realm. Her betrayal to them saved Sherlock’s life but might erase hers. I’m not surprised to see that her memories were damaged, but I am sorry. Thought patterns and so forth do not translate well, especially if you are unprepared, and she was most certainly not prepared. I don’t think she even knew who Sherlock was, she was just saving a stranger who needed her. Perhaps her memories will return when we go back.”

Mycroft examined John closely and appeared regretful, “I’m sorry Doctor Watson, but you cannot come with us.” He waved a hand at himself and then his husband, “This body and the body of Gregory Lestrade will continue to exist in this world, these men live here, and we are but borrowing their minds, and riding in their flesh. If your counterpart exists on the other side, then there is no room for a duplicate. You might be able to share a consciousness as Gregory and I are currently doing, but it would be temporary, and never long-term. Once our consciousness returns to ours, all memories of our interactions will fade from their minds. They won’t know you, nor Sherlock, or Doctor Hooper. Once Doctor Hooper goes back, all the adjustments made to accommodate her unplanned existence here will repair themselves. They will cease to have ever been a part of this world’s existent. Remnants might remain, but they would be stories, no more.”

“We’ll all just forget each other?” John looked unhappy about that announcement, “What happens to me? Why can’t I come over there?”

Mycroft preferred to tell the truth at all costs so he regretted yet again to be the bearer of what was obviously bad news. “Theoretically you can survive in our realm since Doctor Hooper thrives here. When we do leave, however, all changes that they brought will never have happened. Time will repair itself. You might remember, but no one else will. It will be as if you’d never met them, and your memories should continue on from the point of that divergence.”

“So that’s it. You’ve come here to take Sherlock away from me and leave me by myself, and that’s it for me? Where do I live? How? Why should…” John stopped talking and spent a few seconds pulling himself together. _So what if he died in that awful bedsit? He should have died during his tour. He’d been dead inside, it should be no trouble to make a match with his outside. He still had a serviceable revolver, after all. Sherlock had a life when it had been taken away. He deserved to go back and begin living it again, to be able to live openly without fear, forever. If that meant that they had to say goodbye then and there, well, that’s what was going to happen. If what Mycroft said was true, he’d never meet Sherlock anyway, and would never know what he was missing_. He was a soldier; he knew when the battle was over. When he spoke again, the threads of anger and disappointment that had been manifesting were entirely gone, “If it’s best for Sherlock, then fine.”

Sherlock was having a difficult time processing the facts he’d been presented, “Why did you come here, _now?_ I’ve been on this plane for some time, why bother now?”

“You may have been here for a good deal of time, but from our end, everything happened in the last day. Our time flow is clearly different, it’s accelerated on this plane for some reason. We came to retrieve Doctor Hooper as soon as we knew she had gone through the Gate. I didn’t know about you until just today.”

John couldn’t ignore the obvious sadness in Mycroft’s voice and stood closer than ever to Sherlock who seemed to be having difficulty remaining calm. “Doctor Hooper must have had her reasons, some motivation? Why did she do this to me? If you are my brother, why did you wait this long to approach me? I haven’t exactly been hiding.”

“While her motivation is unknown, it is my belief that Doctor Hooper saved your life in the only way available to her.” Mycroft hesitated, and laid it out, “You were far too young to have had to endure this, Sherlock. We are indeed brothers, and though the form I wear before you is not in the flush of youth, _you were_. You were the miracle of our mother’s final year. As for why my counterpart does not know of you, well, I don’t believe he ever expected to see you.” There were lies there that both John and Sherlock could sense.

John looked openly suspicious and then with a rough voice he asked, “How _old_ was Sherlock before he came here?”

Mycroft looked at the living toy in front of him. He could see all the features of his younger brother in the man before him, at least a decade if not more had matured his looks into a stunning expression of male beauty. Mycroft knew he himself had character and not beauty, a point that Gregory often argued, but he didn’t envy Sherlock’s ethereal good looks. They were paired with an intellect that was so astounding that, apart from himself, Mycroft had only known of one other who could compare. _Not that they two would ever meet_. The entire reason for hiding Sherlock his entire life was to keep him out of those hands, in particular, those jealous, destructive, and chaotic hands. “His seventeenth name day was this past lunar cycle.”

“You were just a boy.” John looked ill, “You were just a boy, and I was…” Mycroft worried for a moment that the doctor would sick up on the floor. He had his suspicions about what troubled the doctor, and his opinion of the short man plummeted. _Sherlock had barely been a child!_ Inside his mind, Mycroft was arguing with himself. _Sherlock had been barely more than a boy, but John had no way of knowing that. From the doctor’s perspective, he had been living with a fully functional adult, not a teen._ He relented in his low opinion nearly as soon as he had formed it.

“He might have _physically_ been a boy but the mind of Sherlock Holmes was far more advanced than mere years could account for. The body you see before you is exactly as Sherlock would appear had he aged normally. The artificial body he is in has adapted to the genetic material now integrated with its operating system. This is my brother, though much older than last we spoke. I judge him to be in his late twenties, and he will perhaps stop maturing when his appearance is in his mid-thirties. He will continue to make microscopic adjustments for some time, older models have done as much, and Sherlock has been installed in a model so advanced that even such as I am left astonished.”

John clearly didn’t seem to know what to make of it, but it hadn’t distracted him from the detail that affected him the most. “You’ve got to go back Sherlock, it’s for the best. You don’t belong here, you deserve to go back to a place where you can live the life you ought to live, and not have to bang about in a mouldy flat-share with someone like me.” The doctor was already pulling himself away, and it relieved Mycroft. It was for the best if they just said their goodbyes, and removed themselves from this reality. It was a wonder that Sherlock hadn’t disrupted things too much already. His memories were merging and from them, he gathered that Sherlock had made a reputation for himself. _All of London knew who he was. His fame would grow and grow. He could hardly help but excel at his chosen profession, it would be only a matter of time before people noticed that he wasn’t ageing, and then what would happen?_

“No.” Mycroft was startled. Sherlock had finally come back to life, and he was looking directly into his eyes when he repeated his answer. “No. You can’t make me leave John. He’s mine, and if you won’t let me take him with me, then I am staying here.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to make of that statement, “We have to go, Sherlock. Gregory has already been here for far too long, much longer and our bond might not be enough to help us back. We have to go, and soon.”

“No. It was very interesting meeting you, Mycroft Holmes. Your existence explains much, and had we time, there are a great many questions I might have asked you. I am remaining here with John.” The toy moved away from Mycroft and stood beside the small man. John at least had the grace to look as surprised as Mycroft felt, “I have a life here. I don’t remember much of your world but what I do remember is feeling very, very lonely. John is my friend, my best friend. I don’t want to give him up, and you can’t make me. We have a very good arrangement, we’re happy.”

“Sherlock, how long do you think you’ll be able to remain here without trouble? What happens when John eventually dies, and you live on?” The reluctant and confused pair visibly started, “Sherlock, you won’t wear out for many long years, possibly centuries. John is already a good way through his available lifespan. He won’t last as long as you, no matter how much you care for him. How will you blend in without him? You will not age, that is something you won’t be able to hide. What if someone finds out your true nature? Your lifestyle is dangerous. What if an engagement results in an altercation where you should have been fatally wounded and yet survive? What happens to you then? Do you allow yourself to be tested and experimented on as they rip you apart in order to learn how you work, or will you come home where you can live life openly for as long as you continue? You are unique, but not an unknown element. Come home.”

John was in a state of shock. Not so many hours ago he’d made a promise to Sherlock to stay with him. Now it seemed that Sherlock might not have a choice about letting John keep that promise. This Mycroft fellow was speaking nothing but truth, John could see it in his face and knew that Sherlock believed what he was being told to be true. So many factors were warring inside him. _He didn’t want Sherlock to go_. He was horrified that he’d defiled a young boy with his sexual needs, even if Sherlock had offered, and even if he’d technically been about eighteen by then, _on the inside_. John was over twice Sherlock’s age already, an old man, by comparison, scarred and dying by inches in an increasingly less efficient flesh coffin. Sherlock was from an alternate dimension, and he really needed to go back. “Sherlock, I know I’m your friend but you’ll make other friends back in your real home. Your brother is right. You need to go. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” _He was anything but fine. He was a wreck_. A fleeting thought of the still full clip of his handgun flashed through his mind, and he grew calm at the decision that he’d made that had taken no consideration. _Once Sherlock was gone, there would be nothing keeping him here_.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, now come along. We still need to pick up those lungs, and I believe Mrs Hudson said she’d make that cake I like if I purchase that small flask of spirits that she apparently requires.” John felt his arm being taken in Sherlock’s, and then he was almost dragged down the hallway and away from Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade.

“Sherlock.”

“Sh. We aren’t allowed to speak until we’re outside. _Rules_ , John.” John zipped his lip but glared up at the tall being beside him. Effortlessly, Sherlock signed a request to the Keeper of the Keys, and John glared all over again when a long sleek black car pulled up to meet them at the exit, “My brother loves indulgences like this, I’m sure he won’t mind if I borrow it.”

“Sherlock, you’re supposed to go home, not steal your brother’s car.” Despite his words, John helped Sherlock in.

“I’m not stealing it. The driver will bring it back. I didn’t tell us to come all the way here, he did, so he’s responsible for getting us back again. That’s logic, John.” Sherlock tugged John in after him.

“You can’t avoid the issue.” John found that he was holding Sherlock’s strange feeling hand in his and that his fingers were clutching the bony digits so hard, he could feel Sherlock’s gears through the thin leather covering, “I’ll miss you terribly. I’m used to you now. I don’t know what will happen to me when you’re not around and no one remembers your name, but I’ll never forget it. You’re the most amazing thing to have ever happened to me, Sherlock.” _He knew what would happen, but there was no need to upset Sherlock further._

“John, you are being dramatic, and I thought we’d agreed that that was my job. Be quiet, I’m thinking about lungs.” Sherlock lapsed into silence, but John noticed that he hadn’t taken his hand away and that Sherlock was even sitting closer than he normally did, their bodies pressed together side by side. It made him feel both happy and sad. He knew Sherlock would resist for a while, but eventually, he would give in and go home. John would lose everything, and it was devastating. He looked out the window to hide the fact that his eyes seemed to be stinging with unshed tears, and he was further startled to feel Sherlock’s arm settle gently over his shoulders, “You are mine, John Watson, and wherever you are, I will be too. That’s just how it is.”

Despite everything he knew, John felt a weird flame of trust in his heart begin to glow softly. _Sherlock was brilliant as well as ridiculously possessive, and if he thought they could stay together somehow, then there might be a way. Still, it wasn’t just about Sherlock, even if John felt like his heart was shattering with the imminent loss._ “What about Molly, isn’t she supposed to go back? Would she want to?”

“I’m _thinking_ , John.” Sherlock sounded annoyed, but there was an undertone of worry that John recognised. _Sherlock just needed time to process and review. Maybe by the time they were back to Bart’s and on their way home with Sherlock’s lungs, things would be clearer in his head, and he could explain a few things to John._ It was comforting to have Sherlock’s arm around him, and John didn’t fight it. They were lovers, after all, _some_ affection wasn’t a bizarre thing to share. Sherlock seemed to like it, at any rate, and John found comfort where he hadn’t expected any. Sherlock was firm, warm, and holding John in such a way as to leave the soldier feeling watched over and protected, even though he was the one used to doing the protecting.

Sherlock’s mind roiled as he strained to make sense of the dual mentalities in his head. Seeing his brother had triggered a release of images, sensations, and aural impressions, all in a volatile mix. He was both a mature cyborg and a young man, and for several minutes, the personalities warred with each other. John was the key to his successful integration. Both personalities trusted John and wanted to stay with the doctor. John was everything Sherlock needed, everything he’d missed while he was alive. Now that he wasn’t anymore, there was no reason to deny himself John. When the cab stopped, Sherlock simply led John to the morgue with swift efficiency, pushing his way through the double doors with careless ease. It wasn’t until they’d swung shut behind them that they realised that Doctor Hooper was standing with her back pressed against the far wall and that the metallic click they heard was the sound of a gun’s hammer being cocked.

“Hullo John.” Sherlock and John spun on their heels and stared. Mary Morstan was leaning on the wall beside the now closed doors, “I’ve been waiting to catch all of you together. I should have thought of this ages ago, it's so tidy!” She giggled. “I have to bring you home.”

“Mary?” John was confused. _What was Mary doing in the morgue? There was no need for nurses down here, and why was she aiming a handgun at him?_ “Mary, what’s going on?”

“Orders, John,” Mary looked at him regretfully, “I have to bring them home, together. I tried to think of how but there wasn’t a way. Now there is. I tested it thoroughly, well, I thought it through at least. See, there’s no way to threaten him, nothing I can do to him. _Her_ , sure, I could do lots of things but that’s not the orders. _Bring them home_. That’s what I have to do. Bring them home _together_. That’s the job. I tried to think of a way.”

Mary’s gun wavered just a bit. Sherlock stepped forward and the tip of Mary’s gun was now aimed at the centre of his chest, “Where are we to go, Miss Morstan? Don’t hurt John. I will agree to go wherever you direct without argument, just, don’t hurt him.” Sherlock sounded as sincere as John had ever heard him be.

Mary snorted, “Oh for the love of…”

The world went slowly as Sherlock observed how the ligaments and muscles of Mary Morstan’s hands retracted and flexed, pulling her index finger back against the curve of metal that put an end to his existence on earth. The bullet missed him by a huge amount but did catch John square in the centre of the scar on his left shoulder. Mary grinned and cruelly shot John twice more, this time shattering his hips in two sharp cracks. John’s screams were deafening. “No! No! No! Why?” Sherlock was screaming as loudly as John was as Mary laughed maniacally. She shot John low in his abdomen before Sherlock was able to launch himself forward, tearing the weapon from her hands. Her voice was reasonable as she said, “Now there’s no reason for you to stay. I did try to end it between you the easy way, really, you only have yourself to blame for this.” As if to prove her point, Mary raised her weapon once again, this time carefully aiming at John’s face.

Sherlock was tremendously strong. Careful testing in the last year showed him that he was able to endure huge amounts of stress and that his body was capable of massive feats of strength. Speed was also something he was favoured with. He tested it all right then. A bare flicker of surprise on her face occurred when he tore off the hand holding the gun from her arm. The crackle of blue light that shone from the wound all the proof he needed that she was as artificial as he. Now he needed to discover if she was as invulnerable as well. “Sherlock.” John’s words were wet sounding, and distantly Sherlock heard Molly shouting things at the doctor, was vaguely aware that the small woman was already by John’s side, her hands moving fast to deal with the damage in whatever way she could, “Sherrll…” John’s voice was already weakening, and Sherlock lost the last of his self-control.

Grief ripped him in two, so he tore Mary in two as well. She died screaming but her pain did nothing to repair the damage she’d so casually caused. _John was dying, and Sherlock wanted to die with him and he never could!_  Molly was shouting at him, enunciating her words clearly, “Pick John up, Sherlock. Get both of them on the trolley. _Fast, Sherlock, fast_ . The ambulance is just down the hall. We need to get John into one. We know where to go. I remember it all now! We both arrived there, it’s not a block away from Baker Street. The _Gate_ Sherlock, the _Gate!_ ”

Molly’s shouted orders finally penetrated and with a fearful gasp, he obeyed. Carefully but swiftly he gathered John’s shattered body up, and ignoring his agonised cries, got him quickly strapped down. The remains of Mary were stacked near John’s feet, a shock blanket tossed over her to disguise her a bit. Molly didn’t bother with saline or any other life-saving measure. She just urged Sherlock to push John out of the morgue and toward the exit. They ran.

Stealing the ambulance involved the element of surprise, some really good timing, and pure desperation. Sherlock analysed the controls for an entire ten seconds before absorbing everything he needed to know to operate everything in the vehicle. The keys were conveniently in the ignition, and within seconds of securing John in the back, he hit the accelerator the same time he hit the lights and siren. With almost reckless abandon, Sherlock drove the streets of London as if there were no obstacles whatever. It earned them a growing trail of police cars, and even a fire truck, all of them several blocks behind.

Every burbling gasp of air that John managed sounded like the finest birdsong to Sherlock. It took a horrifying twenty minutes to get where they needed to go, far faster than he had any right to expect, but still far longer than he thought John would last. He instinctively knew when he arrived at the correct location. It was a dark bit of street that he’d unconsciously avoided the entire time he’d been here, the plain brick walls displaying nothing suspicious. Sherlock could _feel_ the Gate. Bits of his insides seem to pull toward it. It made his head feel strange. It was so thin, so vast, so powerful, that he wondered how anyone missed it, even if they couldn’t see it. “Sherlock.” This time it was Molly. “John isn’t going to make it. Even if he does survive the crossing, which is risky even if you’re in one piece, the shock of everything is going to kill him. There’s only one thing to do, and we have to do it the moment we get back.”

Sherlock felt numb inside. He’d had no chance to say goodbye to anyone, but then, no one would recall he’d ever been there. The temporal strain would repair itself the second they were done intruding on the foreign reality. _All that truly mattered was John_. “There’s no time to waste.” Molly nodded and between the two of them, they managed to unload John and remove him from his bindings. Slinging his rapidly fading body between their own, they stepped toward the brick without hesitation. The world lurched for a second, the bricks warping ever so slightly as they pushed themselves through. The entire world lurched as time repaired itself, erasing all that Sherlock had done, everything Molly had been, and ending the existence of John Hamish Watson in mystery.

Molly felt sick as her memories continued to rush back, overwhelming the persona she’d assumed while learning to live on earth. Mary had shocked her enough that she’d recalled her true state, and regardless of her fears, Molly could not choose to live in hiding if it meant her friend needed to die. The passage through the Gate was as upsetting as had been the first time, a passage she hadn’t recalled until she was reliving it in reverse. She felt herself screaming as her very atoms shifted and changed. When they came out the other side, alarms were shrieking in all directions, and people were running toward her, “Quick,” she shouted, “We have to implant this specimen before he dies. The professor needs him alive!”

Molly was banking on the fact that Professor Moriarty never shared his plans with the general staff, and if he did, it was with as few people as possible, and most often it was her alone that was privy to the upcoming steps in his many experiments. To her unending relief, she wasn’t questioned, her authorities were still in place, and no one hesitated. The entire team simply converged on John, deftly separating him from Sherlock, and encasing his now motionless form inside a med-pod. They brought him to the same OR Sherlock had been rescued in, and Molly didn’t miss the irony of that. If she understood things correctly, only a day or two had passed since she’d fled with the person she now knew as Sherlock. She cut her eyes at him, unable to believe that the tall detective she’d had feelings for was actually the blank she herself had activated and then stolen away.

Those were thoughts to follow later. Right now she needed to save her friend. _No matter how they’d gotten here, John had always been a good friend to her, intervening when Sherlock got stroppy and demanding a higher level of effort from his flatmate when it came to minding his manners_. Once they were in OR and John’s remains were put in stasis, Molly checked the body banks to see what was available. There were many blanks to choose from in the older classes, but she was still feeling defiant, and with only a moment of second thoughts, dialled up Professor Moriarty’s very latest model. It was even more advanced than Sherlock and barely completed its first cycle. It was unique and irreplaceable. He had started it the day she’d run away, it would just be ready. She retrieved it.

One at a time she transferred his vital organs from his broken body and carefully planted them inside the blank. Sherlock stood outside the OR, motionless, silent, non-reactive. She hoped he stayed that way. The last thing she needed was to argue about technique with the arrogant prick. Molly realised she had called Sherlock a rude name for the first time, even if it was inside her head. She further realised that the feelings she had nursed for him in the other world had evaporated, the hormonal addiction she had suffered simply fading away, and she was relieved. _Feeling romantic love for someone who would never love you back was exhausting. It was good to be beyond that, finally_. Molly wasn’t blind to how much John meant to Sherlock, nor how quickly John had grown attached to the man she now knew was a living toy. She was grateful that she recalled again all that that she needed to know in order to help them. She wished there had been some way of saving Sherlock that hadn’t trapped him in this half-life, but it was already done. If she could just save John, then Sherlock wouldn’t be forced to face eternity alone.

Concentrating on John, she lifted his brain and spine from the remains of his flesh. With the sophisticated equipment around her, she incorporated as much of John as she could into the new model. When she had rescued all she could, Molly stepped back, sealed John back into a med-pod to complete the procedure, and exhaled, “You can come in now.”

Sherlock stepped hesitantly through the door, his eyes fixed on the currently featureless body before him, “Is he…?”

“He’s alive. How he transitions is an unknown. If all goes well, he’ll be the man you knew, well, a bit younger looking version, but inside, he’ll be the same.” She paused, then reassured Sherlock further, “His outsides will look the same as the original, too. Just like you. Well. You look like you would have if you’d lived.” She stopped, cringing at the casual cruelty of when she’d just said, “Sorry, I mean…”

“I understand, Doctor Hooper, and I appreciate your candour.” Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s body, “You saved us both. I am truly grateful.” His own memories had returned, even ones he wished he could be without. It seemed that all the things that had been done to him had still been recorded somewhere inside him, and though he was standing still, inside he was screaming. Only his fear and concern for John kept him rooted in place. _John was what important at the moment, not horrifying recollections over deeds he didn’t have the internal resources to process properly_. He needed to focus.

Mary’s remains were still on the rolling table that they’d stolen from earth. Molly picked up the pieces and put them in the disposal. She didn’t save anything and simply ordered that the debris be disassembled into the smallest parts possible before being recycled. Mary was as gone as she could be, and that mattered a great deal to Molly. Now there was only the Professor to deal with if she could figure out where he even was. Molly was terrified but resigned. She’d saved John or was trying to. Everything else was already forfeit. She’d known that the second she saved the life of the being now known as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was grateful to Doctor Hooper. He watched her deal with Mary’s remains, and wondered. He didn’t know how to feel about her. _She had been sent back to fetch him, but by whom? Mycroft hadn’t known he’d been murdered._ It was up to Sherlock to figure out who was masterminding the debacle he found himself trapped in, but later. _Right now, he needed to be here, for John_. Molly was examining the blank, her frown disturbing Sherlock’s enforced calm, “What is it?”

“It’s not taking.” She shook her head, and cast a professional eye over the readouts around her, “Everything worked perfectly, it’s just not…he’s not accepting the artificial supports. He’s dying.I don’t think I can stop it.”

Sherlock felt despair stab at him. _How could he save John?_ Sherlock rapidly calculated the variances to determine the problem. The doctor wasn’t from this realm; he was fiercely independent. Even in the disjointed state, he found himself in, John was still fighting for control. Without pause, Sherlock stepped forward and placed his hand on John’s chest, and pulled the blank’s left hand up to press against his own chest, “John. Feel this. Feel my heart beat. You can do this, John. Pay attention. You are so strong John, so fearless. Don’t be afraid to try, please, _for me_. Try. I need you to come back and help me. You are the key to everything, John, I cannot live without you.”

Molly had to step away, shielding her eyes as a blaze of light seemed to burst from John’s palm. Sherlock gasped a sharp inhalation that was almost pain, or possibly pleasure. In a moment, the light was gone, leaving only spots behind her eyes as she witnessed something she’d never seen before. Sherlock was drawing something forth from his own flesh, something that John’s hand was grasping. _A key!_ It was an ornate key, and it seemed to glow. Without pause, Sherlock took it up and pressed it against John’s chest, replacing his palm with it, pushing down firmly. Molly heard the click as it was absorbed seamlessly, and saw with her own eyes John’s chest expand and fill as he drew in a deep breath.

He lived.


	8. Aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saving John meant irrevocably changing him, and once again, Doctor Molly Hooper managed to save someone's life, even if Sherlock was required to manage the very last of it. The transfer has been made, and John Watson, late of Baker Street, London, Earth, is now waking.

Being surprised like that was an unpleasant experience. Actually, John could have lived without it, in the most literal of ways. His eyes had opened for the first time in a new dimension and took in all there was to see through artificial eyes. John knew he wasn’t himself. He was himself inside but not. He should be in agony or at least dull with pain medication, he knew it, yet he wasn’t. John felt wrong. He couldn’t explain it any better than that his body was both familiar and alien to him right now. He’d had aches he’d grown accustomed to tolerating; stiffness in his back, and sometimes in his leg, that weird twang that sometimes made his left arm droop at inopportune moments, or the way his right earlobe was more sensitive to the cold than his left one was, all of that was gone, but at the same time it was still there.

John knew.

John knew he was no longer human.

He was no longer on earth and he was no longer human. He remembered everything and was surprised about it. Somehow he had expected to know nothing at all. John was now the same as Sherlock and he didn’t know how to feel about that. It didn’t matter any longer that they were years apart in age, after a while, it would matter less and less because what he understood was that Sherlock might be expected to live for centuries, and now, so would he.

John wasn’t alive any longer. He wasn’t a man, he was a _thing_ , an object, an inanimate doll who had been programmed to react in whatever way the organic original might have reacted. There was no John Watson left anymore and Mary Morstan was to thank for it all. He recalled every second as if it had happened moments ago, and he wondered at that. His recall had never been so vivid, but right then John realised that he could review the memory as fast or slow as he might wish, and could even zoom into particular details with ease, and even separate every part of the memory and examine the bits at his leisure. _So this is what it was like to be Sherlock_. Momentary wonder aside, John went over the recollection of how he had died with grim purpose.

Mary had been such a good relationship assassin. She’d eased herself into his existence as if she belonged there, wooing her way into his trust like the most graceful ballet dancer. His new much more analytical mind reviewed all recollected data and accepted that she’d been producing pheromones that specifically targeted him, securing his attraction by flagging the most primitive commands in his brain. She had made him forget his promise, and that had hurt Sherlock’s feelings so much that he had shut them off, and still John had wanted her. John regretted having to concur that romance between the two of them was forever impossible until he found a way out of his deal with Sherlock and that it wasn’t fair to string Mary along with the promise of an eventual relationship that John could never guarantee. He accepted her offer of friendship, and though Sherlock had raged at him for it, John had stubbornly stuck it out.

Pride cometh before the fall. Those words stung in the bitterest and sourest of ways. _The flirting. Meeting for coffee instead of outright calling them dates. Bringing her right to 221 B Baker Street, everything he’d capitulated on had hurt Sherlock._ John felt such remorse and such shame. _He was better than that. When he made a promise, he kept it, but he couldn’t say that anymore. He’d broken his word._ Sherlock had asked him more than once to keep their lives private and instead of respecting his request, John had just gone on and done whatever his cock had told him to do. John tried to think of what he’d learned.Mary had been sent to retrieve Sherlock, and Molly, she’d said so. John was just collateral damage, and that knowledge was especially bitter. He had barely been something when he was alive. What worth did he have now that he was essentially dead? “John.” _Sherlock._ Sherlock was standing beside John’s prone form, his hips level with the top of the mattress. His face was pinched and filled with worry, “John. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re a pompous prick who’s cost me everything!” He was so angry. _He had died because of Sherlock! It had hurt too! A lot!_

“Oh, thank goodness, you remember.” Sherlock looked relieved and didn’t comment on John’s tone. John noticed he had a large square of something plastered across his chest, but the cyborg made no mention of it, “Mary destroyed too much of you to be saved on earth. Molly had me bring you here. We’re still in danger John, but at least you’ve survived. You almost didn’t.”

“What do you mean? I died, right? I’m dead right now.” John was pretty certain that he wasn’t wrong.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “If you had a hip transplant, would you consider yourself dead because you’ve traded out a defective part for a working replacement? Granted, this is on a much larger scale, but your new transport carries your original DNA. You will retain your personal self by way of memories and appearance. You will look like you, well, less like you did when we met, and probably a good deal as you looked before you joined the military, but with much better hair.”

“This isn’t a _bad hip_ , Sherlock and there is nothing wrong with a good clean hair-cut! How much of me is actually _me_ right now? Anything? Just the brain? Is that it? I’m just a walking brain in a man shaped jar?” John knew he was becoming upset. He was beginning to shout, and Molly was edging toward the exit. John suddenly found that he was being fed a series of statistics about his own abilities. He realised that Molly would be physically in danger if he lost control of himself, so with a mighty effort, he reigned his reactions in, “Molly…don’t go. I’m sorry. Also, thank you. You obviously did for me what you did for Sherlock. Please excuse my…everything. I’m sorry I am being a bit…well, I am grateful, Molly Hooper. I don’t know how to repay you for helping me.”

Sherlock drifted closer as John made his apology, and hesitantly touched John’s hand. John was still very confused, and still felt very cross, but perversely, his irritation and mystified sensibilities were what convinced him that he would adjust, and he would be alright. He’d been offered a miracle, and even if it was a huge shock, he couldn’t deny the magnitude of it all. He was going to live for a very long time in a whole different realm with Sherlock. The concept didn’t make him unhappy. “There is something else, John, probably several somethings but first…”

John felt Sherlock’s long fingers trail over the flesh of his still forming chest. His chest hair was currently absent, and in the back of his mind, he hoped that it wasn’t gone forever. His nipples were sort of there, but more like slightly discoloured disks rather than the sensitive nubs they had once been. John distantly understood that this unit was still imprinting John’s unique signature and that all the many changes that would happen would take time. Even in the weeks he’d lived with Sherlock, he’d noticed the constant subtle shift and change of his exterior features to become less doll-like and more human. Where Sherlock once could have easily been mistaken for a mannequin, now he appeared to be nothing more than a normal living breathing man with wildly tousled curls. It was then that he realised that he was laying fully naked right in front of Molly and that _his bits_ were beginning to form rapidly, “I need clothes.”

Sherlock’s face had several expressions one after the other. Irritation, relief, curiosity, understanding, and exasperation all flitted across his features in a row. “John, you don’t have anything Doctor Hooper hasn’t seen, or fabricated, before.”

Regardless of his assurances, Molly still procured a loose wrap that she showed John how to tie on. It felt odd at first to be swathed in an awkward length of fabric that had arm-holes and nothing else, but when she was done he was respectably covered from neck to ankle in a garment that was snug but easy to move around in. John felt strange standing there on his two bare feet, mostly because he hadn’t realised how much his back had pained him until it didn’t anymore, and that there was a weird tugging feeling along his ribs over his heart. He pressed his fingers to it and felt a rush of warmth race through him. Though his body was currently unmarked, he could sense something there, just beneath his skin. “What is this?”

“I am endeavouring to tell you, John!” Sherlock sounded cross, “Will you kindly shut up for one entire minute and let me finish?” John renewed his glare and aimed it at Sherlock. Sherlock ignored the glare and utilised the silence that came with it, “John, Mary was killing you, she damaged your original body in such a way that we would not have made it to a repair facility in time.”

“It’s called a hospital, Sherlock, how many times….” John shut himself up when Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Crossing between realms is already stressful, apparently less so when returning to your primary reality, but this is not yours. You are an alien here, and though Doctor Hooper acted expeditiously to harvest and regenerate what she could, your metabolic responses were nill. You wanted to die, John, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

John was gazing up at Sherlock and suddenly he realised that he could feel something, something that wasn’t him feeling anything at all. His eyes widened in shock as understanding began to dawn, “What did you do, Sherlock?”

“I made a key out of complex series of proteins I have absorbed combined with a compound derived from the chemicals my transport produces whenever you and I are together. I used it to encourage your alien DNA to bond with the blank, to give your still living mind a reason to try and survive. You accepted it, and you lived.” Sherlock's cheeks were dusky, and he was having trouble looking right at John.

John stood there and processed. “You gave me the key to your heart.”

“Very prosaic, John.” Sherlock sounded testy, “That’s not what I did at all.”

“You manifested a key made of proteins you absorbed, don’t you mean my sperm, and what else? Can I guess? Let me have a think…” John pretended to ponder, “Would those be, oh, I don’t know… _dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin_ , and oh, maybe some _oxytocin_ , and possibly _vasopressin_?”

John sounded snarky but Sherlock sounded a lot like he was lying when he drew out the word, “No!” for far longer than it required.

“You actually _literally_ gave me the key to your heart to make me live.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“That’s what you said!”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what’s stuck under my skin.”

“Nothing important!”

“I’m betting it is.”

“No, ignore it. It means nothing.”

“No, you can’t say that you huge berk, you brought me here and put me inside this thing and gave me that key because you’re in love with me and you didn’t want me to die.”

Sherlock deflated, his shoulders sagging, “I know.” He admitted shamefacedly, “I had feelings for you I didn’t understand until you were almost gone, and then I didn’t think at all. I didn’t plan the key, it just happened. I didn’t mean to bond us like that, I just did it. Now, apparently, you will always know how I feel about you, and I’ll always need you to live because when you die, I die.” John surged upward, catching Sherlock in a kiss. There was an infinitesimal pause, and then Sherlock was kissing John back.

Sherlock’s simple words affected John in a way that he recognised. He understood Sherlock completely for once. They had stepped far beyond an arrangement of convenience. They were now _more_ , something different than anything that had existed before. John’s new flesh was artificial but designed to meet the expectations of this society. He wasn’t just a framework of hardened materials to hold together soft vat-grown tissues. He was part of a symbiotic pair, half of a living whole, as much a part of Sherlock as Sherlock was now a part of him. Sherlock might always be the mind, but John knew he would always rule the heart; different, incomparable, and incapable of surviving without the other. Far from feeling trapped or dismayed, John felt relief. A lifetime of stress that he hadn’t even been aware of was gone. _He wasn’t alone, and he’d never be alone again. He’d always have Sherlock, and if he didn’t then it wouldn’t matter because he would be gone too._ Their arrangement was now perfect. His mind and body were safe in Sherlock’s company, all that was left to do was enjoy it. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Sherlock sounded shocked.

“Yes.”

“That’s all you’re going to say? Fine?”

“Well, what else should I say? _No thanks?_ Sounds a bit ungrateful if you ask me,” John was now the one rolling his eyes, “ _Oh, poor John Watson got put inside a healthy perfect body and will now get to live out his much expanded lifetime next to a crazy gorgeous lunatic from another reality. Woe is me_!”

“No need to resort to sarcasm, John,” muttered Sherlock. The tall pale man still had a blush on his cheek, and even though he looked happy right then, John couldn’t help but stop the shadow lurking in his lover’s eyes. Sherlock knew John had seen it, and he sighed a second time.

John felt the swirl of miserable distaste radiating from Sherlock and caught quick impressions of sex mixed with pain and a leaden kind of resignation. His new improved mind extrapolated all the details he’d unconsciously garnered about Sherlock during their time together, matched them with the few vague hints that Mycroft had dropped, and without thinking, John turned to Molly and said, “Who did it?”

“Did what, John?” Molly wasn’t trying to be difficult. John realised that she wasn’t privy to anything in his head, he’d need to elaborate.

“Do you know who murdered Sherlock, or why?”

Molly shook her head, “I received an order from the Professor’s wife. This is his facility, but her family money paid for it. I’ve been working here for years. I’m no better than a slave, really. I have no life outside these walls. No one has missed me at all, even if it has just been a day or two. I don’t even have a pet, though I always meant to get something that wouldn’t mind living in a small set of rooms with me. I’m not even sure why I bother to keep rooms, only my clothes stay there most of the time. I might never have returned here, and no one would ever have noticed.”

John clearly heard the bitterness in her voice because he reached out his currently flawless hand to comfort her. She let him, and Sherlock didn’t feel a scrap of jealousy. They owed Molly everything, and if she needed some support from John, then that’s what she would get. He stood next to his lover and listened, “You matter, Molly. You matter to us. You saved Sherlock, and you saved me. From what I understand, your boss is pretty tough, and you did something he probably doesn’t really like. If Mary was his wife, then we’ve killed her, though, honestly, someone must have done that before we did it again because she was all robot-y like Sherlock, but in girl form. That on top of everything else, well, I’m guessing you’re not on his favourites list right now.”

“He’s probably going to have me killed,” Molly admitted bluntly. “Again, no one would notice or complain if they did. I’m highly replaceable and entirely forgettable.

“I remembered you, a bit.” Sherlock stated, “Over there. I forgot everything but my name, but when we met, I knew you, even if I didn’t understand it at the time. You are not so invisible, Molly Hooper.”

John was inspecting his hands, and then Sherlock’s, “Mine are covered, why weren’t yours?”

Molly explained. “Sherlock’s blank wasn’t fully done when I opened the pod. Yours was, and right now, it's in a formative cycle. You won’t take as long to mature. In a day or so you will be able to blend in anywhere.” Molly went to another panel and typed in an order. Five minutes later she was submerging Sherlock’s hand into a wide mouthed flask that held a thick white coloured paste. When Sherlock extracted them, the last part of the skeletal structure was seamlessly covered with flesh. Much like John, Sherlock’s hands were flawless, his fingers long and elegant, already graceful, “There, now you can at least work everything yourself.”

“Thank you, Doctor Hooper.” Sherlock was properly appreciative. All his months on earth had been made considerably more awkward for not having working hands to use, though, without that problem he might never have needed John. He was as grateful for the unfinished body she’d used as he was for the tingle he was feeling in his new fingertips. He realised further that if he could feel, he could touch. _He could touch John and feel him!_

“Sherlock…I don’t think _now_ is the time.” John sounded awkward, and Sherlock realised that his transport was obeying his unspoken desires and that his newly fleshed hands were splayed across John’s still forming chest. “That feels, er, weird actually. I can feel you but not properly, I sense the pressure but that’s it. There’s a lot missing.” John looked distraught, “Will it come back? The feeling?”

Sherlock nodded, then added words to his assurances, “You are new, John. It will take some time for your transport to fully develop, you aren’t even an hour old yet.” He thought rapidly, “Ms Morstan was here. It was her actions that led to Doctor Hooper’s decision. Mary had learned...” Sherlock paused and felt the maelstrom of negative associations he now had begun to churn. He cleared his throat, edging his body closer to John’s without needed to prompt himself to do so, “She has a husband here, Molly’s employer. Ms Morstan discovered that he was having a physical affair, with me. Unfortunately, _I_ did not know this. He gave me a different name, a name I knew was a falsehood, but I wasn’t interested in him as a person, I haven’t been interested in anyone. I had never taken a lover before, and indeed, had specifically refused to participate in intercourse of any description. I was drugged. _Willingly_ drugged might I add, but during those states, he took advantage in every way possible. She saw. She told me. She killed me for it. I didn’t know until she told me, and by then it was too late to do anything at all.”

John’s face, while not as expressive as it had been, nor as it would eventually be, was still able to transmit a sense of horror on Sherlock’s behalf, and instantly, the protective parts of the soldier, and the healing parts of the doctor, manifested in an embrace that assured Sherlock that he would not have to face the aftermath of such revelations alone. “He did what? Where is this person? I will _obliterate_ him!”

Molly looked ill, “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. It’s Professor Moriarty, isn’t it? He…he…” Molly was shaking and clutching her stomach, “How many bodies have I helped hide? How could I know? I handle body parts all day long, every day. The whole point is that they look real! That’s their job!” She threw up, the delicate sink she was getting sick into cleaning itself automatically. She wiped her mouth with a shaky hand, “In the back of my mind, I knew, but I didn’t let myself think about it. It was too dangerous. I’m nothing. I’m no one. I can’t fight back against people like this!”

“You can’t, not alone, but you’re not alone anymore, are you, Molly Hooper. You have two allies now, and John and I have already told you we owe you a lifetime’s worth of favour. This Professor, whoever he really is, has toyed with our lives to our very ends! Why? What motive could he possibly have? What gain?”

“Well, we can’t figure it out here,” John nudged Sherlock into moving, “Isn’t this his place? Won’t Molly attract some attention soon, if not already? He’s going to hear she’s back, and he’s going to know about us if he doesn’t already. Going somewhere else seems sensible, doesn’t it?”

John was completely disoriented but at the same time, he’d never felt surer. He had people to protect, and no way to do it, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Sherlock was his bond-mate, and Molly clearly needed both of them to shelter her. John had never been one to just leave someone who truly needed him behind, and he wasn’t going to start now, especially not here in this new place. This was Sherlock’s natural home, he ought to have some idea of what this world was like, shouldn’t he?”

“I don’t even know where this facility is.” Admitted Sherlock with some chagrin, “I’ve explored a bit, but after I began with euphorics, I ceased.”

John didn’t understand. _Sherlock knew everything! Why, even though he’d only lived in London for a year, the cyborg knew more about every street and neighbourhood than any historical specialist available. How could he not know about his own home?_ “How is that possible?”

“I was very sheltered.” Sherlock sounded irritated now, even as he hustled Molly out the door and into the corridor, John right on his heels. Once Molly got the idea that she was to lead them out, she began to walk with determination. “I broke out of the home where I was kept, and took to the streets. I was only interested in a part-time escape, and only for the euphorics, I’d heard about. I was curious. I wanted to experiment with personal alteration, so I did, willfully placing myself in harm’s way despite how my brother…my brother!”

“What, Mycroft?” John asked blankly.

“Your brother is _Mycroft_ Holmes?” squeaked Molly, “I recognised your last name, but I didn’t know…” Molly composed herself, “We need to get to the outside.” They walked in brisk silence, easing around bends in the corridor, and through the apertures of self-closing exits, not running, but definitely not lingering. Molly remained tense, eyeing every station they passed, ignoring everyone else who worked there and kept walking as if she had every right to do so. John and Sherlock copied her, and the trio made it past the final exit without obstruction.

Once they were outside, Molly made them all stand on top of a weirdly square looking platform. “This is the _cube_ ," she explained, “It’s a transport system that relocates whatever is on it to a specific destination.” She dialled in a long number on a pad that was available along one side. “Your brother is extremely well known. I can call in the general neighbourhood he is known to live in, and hopefully, from there, you can make your way to his actual domicile.”

“You are coming with us.” Sherlock managed to make it an order as well as a question. Molly nodded sharply, “Let’s go. Even if he is not home, he will be back from the other realm by now. We can best reach him from there.” Sherlock was nervous. _He was home but he was also different. When last he walked the wide avenues of London, he’d been made of living flesh, and now he was a reconstruction, a prediction of adulthood. Could he even enter his home anymore? Would it recognise him?_ They’d find out soon enough. “How comprehensive is the public oversight system?”

Molly clearly struggled to understand his question, “You mean, like CCTV?” Sherlock nodded and looked a bit surprised when she answered, “There isn’t anything like that. The laws are clear. Any sort of surveillance is prohibited. People are free to move as they please. Why would we need such devices in this place? There are almost no criminals. Professor Moriarty is an aberration, a fluke, a mutation of some kind. He would have needed assistance in bypassing so many different warning systems before being allowed to live unrestrained for this long. Our entire world is like this, the citizens are free as long as they harm no others, deal honestly, and deal as equals. I know it sounds a bit, well, commercial, but we don’t need the same mask of lies your world seems to need, and overall, people are content, well-fed, as educated as they want to be, and are free to find a niche in this world that caters to their needs best.”

Sherlock distantly understood that this was so. It was hardly tranquillity from horizon to horizon, but discontent tended to manifest by way of strongly worded demands for change, and gradual adjustments made to the society as a whole rather than divisive revolutions that ripped entire communities apart. The end result was the same, but one way took time and commitment, whereas the other could happen in a day. There was still plenty of room for less-than-equitable situations to occur, but they were few and far between. People like Mary Morstan or this Professor Moriarty, Jimmy, could only thrive if they were cautiously protected. It took a lot of power to protect the unbalanced. If they hadn’t been so sheltered, the system would have long ago sought to minimise the damage their differences were causing, or at least, examine it to see if there was a benefit. There was a distinct difference between natural evolution of a species and defective development. Their checks and measures attempted to make discernment. Suddenly, he was troubled. _Genetic bans! He was under one. He was exactly as defective as James and Mary, possibly worse! He’d tied John to a madman forever!_ Regret filled him.

“You’re not,” John replied stoutly. He wasn’t looking directly at Sherlock. The _cube_ had made their surroundings seem to dissolve, and when the images sharpened again, they were in a different location. He recognised the pathways and structures around them. From this station, he could lead John and Molly directly home.

“I’m not what?” Sherlock set a brisk pace, and now Molly fell in behind him and John.

“Not a madman or defective.” Sherlock was startled for a second, “The key, remember? I can feel what you feel. I can’t read your thoughts exactly, but I know what I’m sensing, and you’re not. You’re smart, that’s for certain, but there’s nothing wrong there. You don’t really understand boundaries, but you also aren’t naturally inclined to hurt people.”

“I make people cry all the time!” exclaimed Sherlock, “You shouted at me about it on no less than four occasions!”

“Being blunt isn’t the same as being hurtful!” explained John, “You don’t take the time to dress things up in softer terms, but you aren’t malicious about things. You just lay the facts out, _and_ you’ve gotten better about how you do that. Mary went out and carved a young man to pieces for the crime of being atrociously raped by her husband! She punished an innocent boy for a criminal act caused by _someone else!_ _She_ is wrong-minded for thinking this is alright. _He_ is wrong-minded for thinking he was allowed to do what he did! You are nothing like them! You aren’t. I know it.” John nodded his head sharply as if ending the discussion entirely.

Sherlock felt a warm throb deep inside himself as John’s assurances sank deep. John believed in him and would keep believing in him. Sherlock vowed to do whatever he needed to do to keep John safe, and right now that meant getting Molly somewhere they could protect her. John would not stop until she was alright, so if Sherlock wanted to prevent things from getting messy, he had to solve this problem as soon as possible. All he could say was, “It’s this one here.”

Sherlock led them through the winding path that carved its way through lush foliage. Everything teemed with life, and he understood the differences between his world and John’s world all the better. His wasn’t exactly organic. There were biologics, plants and animals, everywhere, but the basic structure itself was artificial. For generations, people had striven to mesh nature and technology seamlessly together. His home was the result of such thinking, partially alive, but also partially constructed. In a way, his home was capable of basic instincts, interacting with the community of similar homes around it to keep their neighbourhood healthy and thriving through diversity. He himself had overcome the programming in order to run away from home. _It had been two days, possibly three since he’d been alive. Would his home recognise him still?_ “Open.” He commanded, spontaneously pressing his palm to the faintly warm surface. The door made no movement for a long second, then slide wide. Sherlock exhaled in relief. There was enough genetic material in his transport to still be recognised by the door. Gratefully, he brought his group inside and sealed them in. He wondered for a moment why he hadn’t tried this before. _He’d just assumed he needed Mycroft’s DNA, but here he was, inside without it_.

John was staring everywhere. In the few minutes since they’d left the facility, his hair had managed to develop beneath his scalp, darkening all the areas where it was going to return. He was changing before Sherlock’s eyes, the colours and textures of his skin becoming familiar once more as freckles and spots re-emerged. It would be several days before his transport was fully integrated, but he was still relieved to witness the quick changes that made his lover who he was. “This is incredible.”

Sherlock quickly accessed his brother. “We’re at the manor.” He reported, “We have Doctor Hooper with us.”

“Sherlock! _How?_ Never mind how. Stay there. Gregory and I are _en route_. You are in grave danger. The house integrity has been breached! Lock yourself in your old rooms. Do no allow any of the staff, or anyone at all approach you!” Mycroft sounded serious, his voice measured and calm but still clipped and anxious. “Whatever you do, don’t…”

Their connection terminated. Sherlock wasted no time nearly dragging Molly toward his bedroom, opting to pick her up like she was a small child and ran, John once again hard on his heels. They heard someone behind them, and they ran faster. With a shouted order, Sherlock had his chamber door seal behind them the second John was through. All three of them heard the body that thumped against it, and all of them witnessed the material strain as something pushed against it. They were trapped and under attack.

 


	9. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected happenings have led John and Sherlock away from the facility. With Doctor Hooper, all of them have attempted to find sanctuary in Sherlock's childhood home.

Moriarty snarled. _They weren’t getting away so easily!_ He pressed a device to the closed door in front of him and grinned as the House groaned with discomfort. One filament at a time, Moriarty disconnected the door from the rest of the building, searing and sealing each connection with heat from the tool in his hand. It was brutal and caused permanent damage to domiciles, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t his home. He just needed Sherlock and Molly to go with him.

Carefully he worked until he had a weak spot. Dropping the first tool, he selected the second tool from his kit and forced it through the still living material. The house cried out again as it was pierced but its pain only made him feel powerful. Moriarty made a mental note to himself to come back to this domicile when he was done. _He’d burn the heart out of it too_.

As soon as the device shoved through, he initiated a transfer. It was a special combination of chemicals that he’d designed himself. He pressed an ear to the door and heard three soft thumps. His grin threatened to split his face in two as he cruelly destroyed the locking mechanism, ignoring how the domicile was making audibly pained sounds. As soon as he could, James Moriarty forced his way through.

As expected, they were unconscious, all three of them. Molly was as he recalled, small and dull. The man wasn’t any better, shorter even than he, still unfinished in appearance. Casually, Moriarty considered simply deactivating it, but changed his mind. Inside were components he’d never encountered before, and alien sample he could make free with. Perhaps the little man would become interesting. Once he’d reprogrammed Sherlock, he could bring him by to torment the new resident. _That would be amusing._ Moriarty stood straight again, signalling the small crew he’d left waiting outside. He only needed two, so he stepped over the smallest man, kicking him in the ribs as he leant over to inspect Sherlock, “He’s prettier at this age than I had imagined.” He ran a covetous finger over Sherlock’s jawline, “It will feel different the next time I’m in here,” he said as he thrust a finger inside Sherlock’s unresisting mouth, “I’ll make sure you’re awake for it this time.”

“Take him,” he stood and pointed to Sherlock, “And her.” He pointed to Molly Hooper. “Leave that one. He’s no use to anyone.” His assistants flooded the entire domicile, placing devices everywhere. Four of them came in and wheeled Sherlock and Molly away on med-beds. James stepped over the small bald man on the floor like he was a piece of furniture, “Let’s go. Someone is waiting.”

He climbed into the transport with his crew and the two unconscious bodies they were delivering. Leaning over, James kissed Sherlock’s unresisting mouth, forcing his tongue between Sherlock’s unresponsive lips, licking into him greedily, “So sweet.” He whispered, “Do you still taste this good everywhere?” Uncaring of witnesses, Moriarty placed his hand on Sherlock’s crotch, “I can’t wait to play with you again, _William_ , my pretty boy. This is better, so much better, why, I can programme you to be however I want you to be. You’ll never want to run away from me no matter what I do to you, and I can do anything now, can’t I? You’ll cry for me, won’t you Sherlock? I’ll call you William all the time, you’ll forget about being _Sherlock Holmes_. I can take all of that away from you if I wish. I can’t wait, my precious treat. Your tears will be delicious.”

Delivering a large group of people in a transport took no more time than going by cube, so within minutes they were back at his facility. Swiftly, Moriarty led his assistants deep inside the large construct, winding them deeper into its depths until they reached the most secured areas, “Put them in here and leave.” He waited until the room was clear before he spoke, “I’ve done as you asked.”

There was silence for a long time. James wasn’t fooled. He could see various units around him activate. Both bodies were inspected head to toe, a scan running over their every inch from top to bottom. Two areas on Sherlock’s body were highlighted in an angry shade of orange, his mouth, and between his legs. “You have learned _nothing_.” His partner’s voice was singular for the first time. He heard a woman’s voice and no other. She was angry, furious even, “You were told not _to touch_ , specifically not to touch _him_ and you did. Your hands have nearly cost me everything! Your greed has strained my trust in you too greatly.” The coldness of her voice chilled him like nothing ever had before.

Moriarty screamed as two beams of surgical light came from the OR unit to his left. In horror, he lifted his arms and screamed again as he saw only his wrists. Looking down he could see both his hands on the floor, “Why?”

“Why?” The woman’s voice was everywhere and it was thick with disbelief, “You have no _self-control._ If you cannot control even yourself, how can you control others? You do not deserve _flesh_.”

Moriarty screamed again as the light sliced him to pieces. He felt himself being hewn apart, and noticed for the first time that a blank was laid out and waiting, “No! No! No!” he tried to struggle but it was difficult without limbs. The OR units simply lifted him, dispassionately laying him out on another surface. “I did as you asked! I’ve done _all_ that you asked!”

“You have failed me grievously, Moriarty.” She was cold now, expressionless, “You are too driven by your madness, you have not reigned it in or made a tool of it. Instead, it controls you and makes you weak. Your weakness threatens my very existence. You have almost cost me my end-goal so as punishment, I will give you one last chance to survive.” Darkness came as an anaesthetic mist was sprayed into his face. It was a mercy he hadn’t expected and he was duly grateful.

When Moriarty opened his eyes next, he knew. His true flesh was gone and he’d been repackaged into a blank.  He looked at his hands. They were on the ends of his arms like normal. He knew they weren’t his, not really. He touched himself everywhere, knowing he wasn’t himself any longer but still recognising all his parts. Something wasn’t quite right though. He pressed his new fingertips over his genitalia and felt…nothing. “What did you do?” If he could have manufactured tears he would have wept.

“I’ve disengaged your libido and removed all related organs. It was getting in the way. You are better off. You will become accustomed to it soon enough _if_ you survive.”

Inside he was raging. _His cock! She’d neutered him!_ “What do you mean, _if_ I survive? I’m dead. You killed me.”

Laughter filled the room. A thousand voices mocked him. “You know you’re not dead, not really. I know you wish you were. You are now my thrall. Unlike _you_ , I didn’t bother leaving you useless options like _free will_. You are mine to use and _use you_ I shall.” Horrified, he felt his new body step forward and begin dressing. All he could do was move his eyes as he stared around in shock, a passenger without control of anything. It wasn’t until he was done that she returned control to him and he nearly fell to the floor with relief. “Open him up. Inside you will find what remains of his true flesh. I need several small samples. _Do not take enough to harm him_. I need him to survive.”

James did as he was bid. He had no choice in the matter. Deftly he opened Sherlock’s sides and delicately gathered a few cells here, and a few cells there, carefully transferring them to growth units. He was able to work faster than he’d ever managed before, and once more, if it had been possible, he would have wept for his loss. His brain recalled every sensation he used to glory in, the push of hot flesh into resistant bodies, the taste of blood and semen, the gory disgusting stinking revelry in which he’d lost himself so many times. _No longer. It was a mere memory now. She’d done something, changed him permanently_. All he could do was grieve and rage inside. Outside he did as he was told, and rescued pure cells from the toy on the table.

When he was done, he carefully closed Sherlock’s torso, and had the entire unit sprayed down with a mist made of compounds that would repair any unseen damage, and complete the growth process of the unit. In only a few minutes Sherlock was done, fully repaired, and completely matured. Distantly, Moriarty saw that the toy was beautiful, but it didn’t stir him a bit. “Task complete.” He reported tonelessly. Inside he was already using his enhanced cognitive abilities to plot a strike back. _She wasn’t getting away with this!_

John’s eyes opened and he nearly knocked himself out again when he saw Greg’s face only inches from him, “Bloody hell, John! I was about to shake you awake!” Greg stepped back and held out his hand. John took it and stood easily. Greg pulled his hand back and rubbed it ruefully, “I’m so sorry, John.”

John tilted his head in confusion for a moment, “For what?”

Greg looked serious for a minute, “You lost your body, your home world, and your partner, all in a single day. That’s kind of awful, mate.”

John noted that this Gregory Lestrade was far healthier than the one he’d known on his earth. _This_ Lestrade looked well-rested instead of hang-dog tired, fit instead of barely getting by due to bad food and little rest, but his eyes were still warm and keen. “I haven’t lost anything.”

“Sherlock is gone. We don’t know where he is.” Mycroft was there, and much like Greg, he was fit, healthy, and just as sorrowful looking. They looked prepared to support his grief. “I don’t even know how to begin to locate him.”

John rolled his new eyes. “I didn’t realise you were such a quitter _.”_ John could feel Sherlock inside his chest. His lover was alive and awake. He was feeling slightly disgusted too, and oddly, there was a bit of pity there as well. “I know right where that twisted fuck brought him.”

“What? How?” Greg looked entirely surprised.

“Hubris, my friend, hubris.” John checked himself over. He was still wearing the robe that Molly had wrapped around him, “I look like a git!”

Mycroft huffed out an impatient breath and then went to a piece of wall that seemed to shimmer. When he touched it, the wall opened itself to reveal several stacks of materials. Mycroft rummaged through it until he came up with some soberly toned lengths. “I expect you to learn to dress!” he ordered sharply.

John felt his face heat with a blush when both men pulled off his robe and left him naked, “Oi, no staring!” Both of them eyed his penis and a quick glance down let John know that it, like the rest of him, now looked exactly as it had back on his earth. That let him know that more than an hour had passed since he’d arrived at the house with Molly and Sherlock. Greg and Mycroft showed him now the lengths of fabric could be wrapped and draped so that, with a couple of belts to cinch them together, it appeared as if he were dressed top to bottom in a loose tunic, and slightly billowing trousers. The heavier material went on his feet, conforming to his unique shape to make low cut boots. “Now, show me how to get back to that facility. I know exactly where he is.”

Greg and Mycroft looked at one another. Their eyes went glassy and they began speaking in unison, but they clearly weren’t addressing John. They were speaking to other people somewhere else, asserting their authority together. A small crew was moving through the hallways. They reminded John of a hazmat team, all of them focused on collecting up tiny _somethings_ on the walls and behind decorative pieces. When Mycroft and Greg’s focus returned, both of them looked at John, “We have passcodes to enter the facility now. James Moriarty is in violation of several laws, so his right to privacy on his property has been rescinded. There is more than enough evidence that his business has hidden several major crimes, and in _this_ world, that is simply not tolerated.”

“Take me there,” John ordered. _He was getting Sherlock back right the fuck_ _now._

“You’re certain, John?” Mycroft asked softly, “How do you know where my brother is?”

John wasn’t sure if he should explain. His hand splayed across his chest where he felt the key resting above his heart. It was tugging at him, urging him to move. He was filled with a vast warm, a light that brightened his very soul. A single person was responsible for it being there. “I love him. We’re connected. I know. I feel him. I _know_.” It was imprinted in the front of his mind. He needed to get to Sherlock as soon as possible. His lover was increasingly anxious. When that sensation suddenly ramped dramatically upward, John barked out his order again, “Take me there, now!” he commanded.

Mycroft and Greg wasted no time leading John to the cube. They dialled in a number and within seconds they were near Moriarty’s facility once again. John led the way, certain of his direction. Mycroft and Greg managed to assert their new access before John was made to wait for more than a second or two at each check-point. It took several minutes before they were close, and in that time, John knew that something had happened to Sherlock, but that his lover was relatively unharmed.

Sherlock was awake. He hadn’t succumbed for long to whatever had filled his rooms at the manor. The streets of John’s London had been terribly polluted, and his transport had become efficient at filtering out negative elements. He’d been almost instantly flushed clean of whatever they had been exposed to. _This was his best chance to infiltrate his enemy’s abode, and the first possibly only chance he’d get at lashing out and obtaining a degree of revenge._ Sherlock kept his eyes closed and did his best to keep his transport from revealing his degree of alert consciousness. Instead, he used all his new senses to take in information. _Someone was speaking. They were using a voice modifier at first, but then…a woman?_ Sherlock almost frowned. Her voice was familiar but he couldn’t place it. He nearly reacted when Moriarty began screaming but kept himself rigid and non-reactive. He heard grotesque sounds, damp sounds, a moist horrifying sort of noise that painted a graphic picture in his mind about what was happening. It didn’t take long for him to deduce what had happened. _It was justice, in a way. Moriarty had robbed many of their dignity and value, losing his true flesh seemed an appropriate price to pay_.

Sherlock maintained his ruse even during the collection. It didn’t hurt, though he definitely sensed what was taking place. As soon as his panels were closed, he ran diagnostics to ascertain the situation and to confirm his fear. He didn’t want to theorise without the facts but verification wasn’t long in arriving. He’d lost cells from every one of his remaining internal organs. _They were going to clone him! It was difficult to remain motionless as he listened to programs whir into action and knew that in a few hours those few cells would split, divide, and would be coaxed into forming into embryos. How many?_ It wasn’t until the noises stopped that he realised that he could _feel_ John. The sensation was in his chest, but also in his mind. It was warm, luminous, all-encompassing, and it made him feel safe. _John was alive. He was safe. John was coming for him. John loved him_.

Sherlock had to struggle to continue remaining motionless when a jolt of happiness shot through him. _John loved him!_ It took all his quickly waning self-control to restrain himself as he ran through everything he recalled about his friend. It didn’t take more than a second for him to realise that he loved John right back. His eyes were still closed so it was easy to just visualise his lover, to recall the exact shades of blue that made up John’s eyes, or the way his skin tone varied in minuscule degrees all over his body, or that peculiar scent that always lingered, part gun-oil, part-inexpensive tea. John was a conundrum, a mystery, a surprise, and the most amazing person in the multiverse. _John_.

 _I’m close._ A voice tickled his ear but registered nowhere else. It was if he could feel the impression of John’s words and wasn’t hearing them at all, but he knew they’d been spoken nonetheless. _Stay still, love._

_John?_

_Sherlock_.

John was moving almost automatically down the long winding corridors. He recalled the route perfectly from the egress with Molly. He knew right where he was going, and wondered at the predictability of it all. _The complex was vast; did James Moriarty not use the entire building? Why did he keep favouring the same few rooms over and over again?_

Something Mycroft had done caused every single door to slid soundlessly open the second they approached. It was no different when they came close to the same room where John had been brought back to life earlier that very day, “Sherlock.” John saw his lover laying on a surgical bed, motionless, expressionless, and seemingly unconscious. John didn’t hint to anyone that Sherlock was entirely awake and ready to move. He was John’s secret weapon, and the soldier knew better than to expose his advantages too soon.

A small man stood between them. He was almost delicate looking, finely groomed, lithe, and impatient, “The _pet_.” He sighed heavily, sounding annoyed. “This is what I get for being too soft.”

A woman’s voice seemed to hiss out from all around them. He felt something disembodied attempting to make his legs move, his arms, but easily, John ignored the unspoken orders. The voice was irritated when it snapped, "Dispose of it then get on with the next stage.” Since John could not see a physical presence, he temporarily discounted her. He had only one target at the moment and John wasn’t one to waste a perfectly good opportunity.

Things went from slow to fast in the blink of an eye. Moriarty raised his arm, aiming some kind of device at John. John stepped off to the side, pushing Mycroft and Greg’s vulnerable human bodies behind his more impervious one and back into the hallway just as Sherlock rose silently behind the small dark-haired man. Sherlock managed to knock whatever it was from the small man’s hand, and shouted, “John, it was _him_.”

A deluge of images washed through John’s mind. _James Moriarty. He felt how it felt to have the man’s cock forced into his arse. He felt the memory of hot semen being pumped down his unconscious lips. He raged as he experienced being bitten and savaged by the small man in front of him_. John knew that Sherlock had allowed John to become a part of his newly rediscovered memories for a specific purpose. Red rage filled him. His new body was strong and powerful. He was faster and more dangerous than he’d ever been, and he had skills this world had almost entirely forgotten. John attacked deliberately. He didn’t hesitate to strike offensively, immediately damaging man. Instantly, he saw that James was a newly implanted blank and he smiled.

Moriarty did not possess any sort of battle skills but that didn’t mean he was helpless. He was in a fully automated room made up of tools he’d designed himself. He had a billion ways to hurt John. Instantly he attempted to activate several options, not expecting the two men to work unexpectedly in tandem.

Sherlock had learned a great deal during his year in London. The city was rough and even brutal at times, but the rewards could be sweet despite the heavy helpings of despair. You quickly learned to appreciate things because life was fleeting. You needed to fight for it. John was a seasoned survivor and Sherlock was an extremely quick study. Moriarty didn’t stand a chance. Shoving the smaller unit forward, Sherlock ignored the fight that immediately commenced, and instead turned his attentions to the screens and panels all around him. “Whoever is watching, I am about to find you.” No one in this realm practised espionage. It was an art nearly as forgotten as battle. Sherlock had lived with John for enough time to have been exposed to all the old soldier’s favourite action and spy movies. With speed and determination, he accessed the complex system in front of him, ruthlessly backtracking, peeling back layer upon layer of obfuscation until the mysterious woman spoke. She sounded concerned, even urgent, “Don’t.”

“Why ever not?” Sherlock didn’t pause. It was amazing to be able to use his fingers this way. He tapped and poked and manipulated the artificial environment deftly. “You have interfered with my life without hesitation or concern for my approval, why should I grant you any such grace. I want to know who you are. I want to know why you are cloning me. I want to know why Moriarty did what he did. I want to know everything.”

“No.” The voice was growing petulant. “I won’t say.”

“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Sherlock replied confidently. The technology was highly advanced but humanoids tended to think along similar guidelines so he followed levels and branches of information until his mind was humming with the connections he was making. Minutes later Sherlock opened his eyes and saw the entire complex laid out before him. He was joined with the structure all around him, could feel the pulse of life it contained and managed, and soon enough, he followed the correct paths to his quarry, “There you are.”

“You mustn’t,” her voice sounded pleading and panicked at the same time.

“Mustn’t I?” Rhetorical. Sherlock was stopping for no one. There was a mystery right in front of him, and on John’s earth, Sherlock had grown powerfully addicted to the pleasures of untangling whatever mess hid the answers from him. He found that the devices in front of him were as natural for him to use as it was to pretend to breathe or even how to walk. It was a little cumbersome at first but then he understood more and more about how to access information. Suddenly he was inside something, a part of it, distinct from it but able to almost see the ocean of data that was available. “Intriguing.”

“No! Not possible! You should not be able to…” The voice sounded confused. Clearly, Sherlock had bypassed some kind of barrier that he hadn’t even been aware existed, “You are a toy now. This should not be possible.”

“If you've eliminated all other possibilities whatever remains must be the truth.” As soon as Sherlock spoke the words he felt as if the entire universe had somehow come into some sort of grand synchronicity. “Since I am doing whatever it is that I cannot do, it seems logical to presume that I can indeed do the unnamed act.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” The woman sounded almost sad now, her voice small and increasingly distant. Suddenly all the attacks against Sherlock and John ceased. The lights around them faded in intensity and the entire room was silent except for the meaty sounds from the pair still physically struggling behind Sherlock.

John was a tiny bit distracted with keeping himself in line. Moriarty was putting up a good fight but John didn’t want to let him off easy. _This despicable lowlife had stolen Sherlock’s innocence in order to satisfy his own selfish cravings._ John planned to make him pay for all the joy he’d robbed. Now that Moriarty was encased in a body similar to his own only evened the playing field a bit. John was superior in capability; they both knew it. Moriarty was capable of hurting John, possibly even terminating him in the right circumstances, but the odds were vastly against him. “There are words for people like you.”

Moriarty tried to get a mech to spray John with anaesthetic mist but John batted the unit away easily. He wrested the tool bearing appendage from the wall and used it as a weapon. Moriarty yelped as John struck him over and over again, targeting sensitive but not debilitating locations, trusting that the new toy body he was in was sturdy enough to withstand the beating it was receiving. It was. John spitefully kept it up before he began to methodically up the ante. He began to destroy Moriarty’s new body by inches, lopping off toes, a finger, the tip of his ear, all negligible and easy repaired pieces. John was only getting started. He was also keeping a bit of his attention on Sherlock, but his lover was busy hacking into whatever it was that this world used to make their technology go. He didn’t really understand it, but Sherlock seemed to be sussing everything right out. He left him to it and got on with his end of things. He could hear Mycroft and Greg arguing softly in the hallway, both men still to physically vulnerable to enter the fray. They were safer where they were. “You’ll never have him again.”

John was surprised when Moriarty nearly sobbed out the words, “You have no idea how right you are.” He understood a few minutes later when his methodical blows deprived the professor of all his garments. Moriarty nearly snarled as he finally snapped. He looked chewed up and torn apart but he still launched himself forward to throw his entire body at John. John simply used the impetus to grasp the small man and whirl him about, slamming his entire body hard against a panel. Energy jolted through his artificial body and Moriarty screeched in obvious pain.

The dark haired man wasn’t giving up. His arm shot out, hand scrabbling wildly at a nearby tray where an array of dispensers had been set out. With an animalistic cry of triumph, he stabbed the tip into John’s left shoulder. It took John only a few seconds to step forward, yanking the device out, and another instant to pry James away from the panel using the same appendage he’d been fighting with, and no time at all to allow the slightly smoking professor to fall to the floor, “You’ll never have anything, not ever.” With those words John used it to crush Moriarty’s head, deliberately ensuring that his brain was entirely destroyed. Perhaps there was some way someone in this time could save him, but John doubted it. Leaving the now completely inert body where it lay, John turned to see what Sherlock was up to.

Greg and Mycroft were finally able to enter the room. Both of them looked at the body on the floor, and Greg knelt to check it over closer, “James Moriarty.” He reported to his husband, “Terminated.”

Mycroft huffed out an impatient sigh, “It greatly simplifies matters, but doesn’t solve to final problem.”

“Almost there.” Sherlock was ecstatic. The answer to nearly everything was right here. He didn’t have time right then. He needed to come back. He followed one thread after another, each fragment of data matched up with another and then another until each tiny bit was pieced together into an overall picture.

Sherlock stopped moving. Mycroft stepped forward and he lay his hand on the shoulder of his motionless brother, “I would have told you when the time was right.” Mycroft knew what Sherlock had found. He knew what his little brother was experiencing right then, and it broke his heart once more, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“That’s what she said.” Sherlock delivered the line flawlessly but the truth of it took all humour away. “That’s _exactly_ what she said.”

Sherlock stepped away from everyone. Turning on his heel, he left the room, swiftly walking through the exit and down the hallway, “Sherlock!” John raced after him, ignoring the scrapes his transport had endured, and the large mess on his left shoulder which now looked slightly melty. John didn’t say another word, simply falling into place beside his lover, both of them stalking away briskly. Mycroft and Greg moved to keep up and were barely able to manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to poor planning and not looking at my word count, the final chapter is going to be HUGE...stay tuned for the Big Finish.


	10. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have had a confrontation with Moriarty that did not end well for the Professor but there's another force in play.

The room that Sherlock led them to was unassuming, plainly furnished, and currently populated by one unconscious appearing Doctor Molly Hooper. John rushed to her side to check on her state of health. Sherlock ignored them and ignored his brother and Lestrade as well. There in front of them, partially obscured by an icy panel filled with swirling gases, was a human brain. The case it was sitting inside was made of what he now recognised as intelligent glass. Sherlock knew that it was a contained environment, that the brain was alive, active, and functional. The casing was integrated with the facility’s operating system, and in essence, the personality in front of him _was_ the building. He began to understand a bit about why Moriarty had been involved, and why his own cells had been so carefully harvested but he needed confirmation, “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was filled with grief as well as warning, “Please, brother mine, don’t.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock nearly jumped as he spoke his brother’s name with irritation. The same female voice had snapped out his brother’s name with the exact same degree of irritation as he and it was disconcerting. He continued, “You’ve had your chances, Mycroft. I need answers. I need to know why this has happened. Who are you? Why are you interested in me? Why was I targeted by Professor Moriarty? Why are you here? Where is your body?”

A wry chuckle filled the air, “So curious.” The voice seemed fond, “You would have been perfect.” The voice was remorseful now, “He wasn’t to touch you. That part I regret.” The voice was indeed filled with remorse. “I _needed_ you, br...”

“No!” Mycroft shouted suddenly, “Do not. I beg of you, after everything, do not do this.” He wasn’t speaking to Sherlock at all. The still human man stepped protectively in front of Sherlock, his hand extended, “After all of this…just…stop.” Mycroft’s voice was imploring.

“Have you told him, Mycroft?” The voice was cruel, demanding, “Have you told him anything at all?” Mycroft stood still, his head hanging, her words becoming louder and louder, “You chide me for secrets as if you are different. Your goals are no nobler…”

“Silence!” Mycroft roared in sudden rage, “Do not attempt to equate our deeds as if they are in any way comparable.”

“ _Ghoul_.” The woman’s voice hissed contemptuously, “Graverobber and necromancer.”

Mycroft’s snort of contempt was of the highest quality, “Your antiquated language is a mask for your own actions. I did what I had to in order to save what I could.”

“You saved no one! Your spite…”

“MY SPITE?” Mycroft stalked toward the containment unit in a fury, “How do you speak such hypocrisy? Your lack of a body is your own choice. How dare you…”

It was his turn to be cut off once more, “How dare I? How dare _you!_ How dare you stand there in front of me and attempt to justify your madness?”

“ _My_ madness? It was you who…” Mycroft cut himself off, visibly struggling to control his rage. With forced calm, he spoke again, “It is over. Take this no further. There is no gain to be had.”

“I have all that I need to accomplish my goal. It’s too late to stop me. I have what I need at long last. It won’t be long now.” The far wall seemed to melt away, revealing a grow-pod that contained a growing human fetus. “It will be ready within a single day. One short operation is all that it will take and I will finally have what I deserve.”

Sherlock felt a strange jolt inside his chest but it was John who made the connection, “It’s you. That baby is _you_ , Sherlock.” He felt it then, the connection, and knew that John felt it too. They two were bonded on a molecular level in ways neither of them fully understood yet but allowed them to share the recognition they both felt when gazing upon the rapidly forming child. Whoever was inside the case was made of Sherlock’s very essence.

“Yes,” The woman agreed pleasantly, “I took his cells and began the process. This is one. There are dozens more. Sherlock was very…viable.” Her voice was content, “This one is female, a personal preference. It’s not so very difficult to manipulate gender.” She seemed amused.

Mycroft was not paying attention to the clear wall. He addressed the containment unit directly. “It won’t work. You know it will not work. The moment the implant takes place _the new DNA becomes dominant_. You will fail again.” Mycroft was ignoring his own vulnerability as he approached the case, “The ban will continue. I am so sorry. You will never have what you wish to have.” There was genuine regret in his voice, “All of this was for nothing.”

“No. You are wrong.” The voice didn’t sound certain, “Tests indicate that the compatibility is in the very upper levels. It will work.”

Mycroft stepped closer and lay his hand gently on the surface of the clear pane. The rage he’d exhibited was completely gone, and when he spoke, his voice soft and sorrowful. Even at a whisper, the single word he uttered filled the room. “Sister.”

“Sister?” John finally wrenched his gaze away from Molly, staring now at Mycroft. “This jugged brain is your sister?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft was chiding. The tall man was stroking the glass tenderly, “This is all that remains of my family. The once-proud line of Holmes is ended.”

“No, brother dearest. I can save it. Sherlock’s genes are perfect. He is unmarred by the flaws that plague you or those which led me on this very path. In less than a day our great lineage will live again. I will…”

“Eurus.” Mycroft’s voice was filled with a confused mix of emotion, “Surely you don’t truly believe.”

“Stop, Mycroft.” Now Sherlock was standing beside his still human sibling, “Explain. Now.”

Mycroft did. He explained how their great family had dwindled down to a single line, and how their parents had struggled for years to bring a healthy child to term. Many of the oldest families had the same problem and it was the great motivator for the research that eventually allowed places like the facility to thrive. Mycroft was their first success, but his arrival came with dire tidings. The many generations of Holmes that preceded him had gifted their genetic line with a series of small flaws, and so Mycroft’s DNA had been declared unviable, and a worldwide ban on using his genetics for any purpose was put into place. He could never father children.

With determination, Mummy and Papa Holmes tried yet again to conceive a child through which to continue their line and managed to eventually produce a daughter. Like her older brother, Eurus was fantastically brilliant but even more flawed than her only sibling, her madness apparent almost immediately. Violet and Sieger Holmes decided to stop trying, opting to instead raise their two children with as much love and care as they could muster. Their plan to allow their bloodline to extinguish gracefully was disrupted when Eurus was only five and had accidentally learned that she would be the last Holmes. She didn’t like that idea. She wanted a playmate, someone to be with because Mycroft was no fun, and Mummy and Papa were frightened of her.

The rage that followed was far above that which most adults could muster, and with Holmesian cleverness, Eurus attempted to fix herself. Ruthlessly, the small child focused her rapidly developing intellect on a solution. Eventually, she accessed her family connections as well as their fortune and directed others to pursue a course of inhumane testing and experiments in a desperate bid for success. A piece at a time she sacrificed her own body to further her studies, utilising available technology to hide the evidence away from her family until there was almost nothing of her true self left. Her body was mostly artificial before she would have been physically mature, ruthlessly blackmailing and manipulating the specialists who made it possible for her to keep hiding in plain sight.

It was at this point that the brilliant but misguided young girl adopt a different approach and decided that fixing her progenitors would be more efficacious. An assault on her family home allowed her to snatch her own parents and to forcibly imprison them in order to make them available for her studies. For three horrific years, Eurus did her worst to them both. Gathering what she needed from both parents, the girl caused Mummy to become pregnant again and again, but as with her planned pregnancies, Violet had difficulty conceiving and carrying a child longer than a few weeks. She was given no time to recover from failures, her ruthless youngest child using the machines she controlled in order to make her mother do as she was bid. Unfortunately for Papa, his _donations_ were sufficient for hundreds of attempts and keeping him wasn’t on his daughter’s agenda. She neglected to care for him consistently and he began to fail.

Mycroft had grown up fast and his unwanted war against his unstable younger sister had whetted his latent skills. He was years older than she was and just as intelligent, if in an entirely different way. With great effort and a good deal of assistance from the authorities, Mycroft managed to retrieve what was left of his parents from Eurus’ tiny but diabolical clutches but not in time to save his father’s life. Mummy only survived a week longer. She had been weakened by the constant pregnancies and recovery was uncertain. It was now up to the still young and now entirely alone Mycroft to forge a new life for the remnants of his family so he caused what was left of his sister to be maintained in isolation. Eurus still had allies though, just as he did, and in the end, they spirited her away. All Mycroft could do was attempt to protect the very last of his family with all he had in him. Mummy had given him her dying blessing and Mycroft harvested her very last healthy ovum before saving her in the one way she found acceptable. The ovum was fertilised by Papa, and placed inside a paid host. Eurus’s allies managed to kidnap her and kept her until Sherlock was brought to term. Mycroft managed to retrieve his newest sibling before she could begin testing and hid him inside their old home with every defence he could think of in place.

Now, Sherlock finally stepped forward, “All that suffering, all that care, and I ignored all of it. I never once thought about why it I needed to live like that. Instead, I just ran away from home and got myself tangled up with James Moriarty, and for no better reason than that I wanted to get away from what I thought was a horrible life.” He turned to look at the remains of his sister, “What were you going to do with me?”

John stepped forward, “Isn’t it obvious? She was going to implant her brain into your body as if you were just another blank. She was hoping that she could take over your genetically healthy self, but this technology doesn’t work like that, does it? Even I know this and I’ve only been here for a minute. The moment she sticks herself into another body, anyone’s body, her DNA becomes dominant, and the genetic ban remains. Her new body will simply convert and be genetically flawed anyway. She did all of this for nothing. Your parents might still be alive if she hadn’t done what she had done.”

“If she hadn’t done it, I would not be here.” Sherlock pointed out, “I wasn’t a choice, I was an experiment.” He sounded bitter. “If I hadn’t worked out, I would have been scrapped, isn’t that right, sister?”

“Yes.” Her tone was now flat, emotionless.

“What will happen now?” John could feel how hurt Sherlock was and moved closer to his lover, silently offering whatever support was required.

“The experiment will continue.” She spoke with surety. Eurus seemed prepared to continue doing whatever she deemed necessary to succeed.

“No.” Mycroft was firm, “Sister, no. Our parents are dead. I cannot cause a child to be created. You have voluntarily given up your own body, have caused Sherlock to lose his thanks to your ill-chosen associates, and have further caused Doctor Watson to lose not only his body but his entire world. It is enough. You _have_ saved the family. Once this child is ready, we will allow it and the others you have caused to exist to be born as siblings. They are healthy, and as you said, viable, as their progenitor was. _They_ will continue the Holmes line, all our flaws erased. You have succeeded.”

Eurus sat in her case, the lights flickering in a pattern that seemed distressed. Clearly, she had been so focused on her original plan that she had not considered how to view her success from any other angle. “I have?” She sounded tentative, uncertain.

“You have.” Mycroft’s voice was solemn as well as sincere, “It is at an end, sister. There is no need for more pain, no need for more death, no need whatever to hurt anyone. The child inside your machines is the miracle you’ve wished for ever since you were a baby yourself. You have caused a perfect Holmes to be made, you have mothered an entirely new generation of blood. You have done enough.”

The lights flickered dimly for a minute before brightening, “Our home? Is it alright? I gave James tools.” Her voice trailed off, “I was so angry. Blood. Family. It’s the only thing that truly matters but I let him hurt them.” She was silent for a moment before speaking one mournful word, “Mummy.”

Mycroft spoke soothingly again, “She forgives you, sister, she always does. She loves you. She will heal, in time.”

John hadn’t followed along closely enough and he gasped as he finally put the obvious information together, “Your home?”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open as all the factors came together in his mind, “It’s Mummy, she’s part of the house now. How? Since when?”

“Since just after you were born. She was dying but she didn’t want to leave. There wasn’t much left of her by the end so she had me place her sentient self into our living domicile. Once she integrated, Mummy was able to forget much of the pain she experienced but she also forgot Papa and Eurus. Her only concern was Sherlock. She was the one who allowed Sherlock to escape. She was the one who let you in again and the one who felt the pain of the intrusion that brought you back to this facility.” Mycroft let his gaze turn to his brother, “She knew you felt trapped, and knew you needed to run free. I don’t think she’s capable of exterior foresight, not like she might have once been able to. None of us could have predicted that you would run right into James Moriarty’s web and be caught. You are the only version of yourself left, or you were. On John's earth, I was responsible for your demise. That's why I was so angry to see you though, thankfully, you left there before I could rectify your status. I was jealous of your youth, your brilliance, and so many other things. I irrationally plotted your end in order to win a battle you didn't even know was happening.”

“So Moriarty wasn’t part of this?” His brother's confession disturbed him, and Sherlock could never forget what had been done to him when he had still been flesh, and he knew that his John shared those memories with him. This Mycroft clearly cared deeply when his counterpart did not. Moriarty had been punished for his crime against Sherlock, but that wouldn’t make the facts go away. Sherlock wasn’t certain how he felt about it all. He recollected all of it perfectly but distantly. It had definitely happened but apart from dismay and discontent that he had not been able to give John the first of himself, there was no residual anguish to attach to the multiple rapes he had endured. Moriarty was very dead now. John had made very certain of that.

“James Moriarty was good at what he did. His job was to fabricate a durable host for me to occupy, one that would accept only the best parts of an introduced genetic sample. The blanks were to screen out anything defective. It didn’t really work, but then, we weren’t really done. Now we’ll never be. He was only interested in serving himself and his perverse desires. He indulged in his own designs but only after he’d done his work for me.” Sherlock felt everyone’s attention on him, especially his sister, “I would have taken your body from you, little brother, and left you as you see me now.”

“I might have been content,” replied Sherlock honestly, “Had it not been for John.” Sherlock stepped back until he was next to his lover. Taking John’s hand in his, Sherlock looked over to his kin, “What happens now?”

The lights on the case were growing dimmer by the second. “I want to be with Mummy.” Eurus’ voice was plaintive, “Take me home, Mycroft.” Her case moved forward, slowly sliding away from the wall in which in had rested. It was small enough for Mycroft to easily carry in his arms, but Gregory stepped forward to take it from his husband, sharing the burden of the task before them. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Eurus’s voice was small now, young and child-like. The case was barely lit now, and Sherlock said nothing as his family stood together. “I know it fixes nothing but at least I can tell you that I will not trouble you again. I’m tired.”

John revived Molly. The young doctor stared nervously around her as they explained what had happened, “That’s it?” He looked around, “So, now what?”

“I am uncertain. Mycroft’s people will take over this facility.” His brother nodded, clearly distracted with whatever report he and Gregory were currently submitting together. “There are an as yet unidentified number of my clones currently gestating in the grow-banks. By tomorrow there will be a horde of very beautiful and highly intelligent babies to look after.”

John rolled his eyes. “I love him for his modesty,” he teased. “So, what do we call them? Your brothers? Your children? Er…nieces and nephews?”

“They’re me, John. As clones, they are exact replicas and not a toss of the genetic dice like Mycroft and Eurus.”

“So we’re going to raise them?”

“Good heavens no, we want them to grow up happy, don’t we?”

“I’d be a great dad!” John protested, “Think how cute you probably are as a tot, don’t you want to see that? How precious would that be, all bare bummed and sucking on your wee thumb.”

“Stop it John, or this relationship is over.”

“We could call one Willy, and another one Scott, two boys, what do you think?” John was teasing harder than ever now.

“Cease and desist, John, there will be no child-rearing happening.”

“Come on, Greg and Mycroft could get a pair too, how fun would that be? Dads in the park? Dinner for eight once a week?”

“Threatening me will do no good, Watson, we are not _parenting_ my clones.”

“Babies, Sherlock! Tiny little you-s just running about being adorably brilliant. We could get them baby laboratory jackets; how cute would that be?”

“You are digging a hole, Watson.” Sherlock tried to sound threatening but a pleased twist of his lips betrayed how much he was enjoying John joking with him.

John laughed fondly and helped Molly to stand. Carefully, both of them assisted the small doctor to another room where John was quickly coached on how to use the medical equipment. They found that Molly had also been harvested and that her clones were developing right alongside Sherlock’s. “I have ten children,” reported Molly. She sounded a bit numb.

“They are not our _children_.” Sherlock admonished them again, “They’re us. Ten each. Twenty boys and girls. We’ll need to get ourselves one of those dreadful child care factories I read about on earth.”

“We don’t need orphanages specialising in child labour, Sherlock.” John was still giggling a bit so it was his turn to try and hide his mirth. “I’m feeling left out, what, Watsons aren’t clone-worthy?” He elbowed Sherlock and received an acknowledging nudge in return. “No, I’m kidding. There are enough Watsons in the universe. No need to add our problems to the local gene pool.”

Sherlock lost all trace of humour, standing directly in front of the soldier, a serious expression on his face, “I would be very honoured to combine our genes, John. If you want an actual child and not a clone, I’m certain that we can manage. We have the technology.”

“I feel like the six-million-dollar man.” John shook his head sadly at the confused faces around him, “No one will ever get my references ever again.”

“No one got them before, John, not even Molly, and she was there on earth with us.” Sherlock offered his commiserations which earned him another thump from John. The tone turned serious as everyone automatically formed a small circle in order to speak face to face, “Mycroft, what happens now?”

Mycroft hesitated for only a moment, “The facility no longer has a legal owner. The Morstans lost it to Professor Moriarty but now that he’s dead, there’s no one to leave it to. Legally, it’s now Doctor Hooper’s facility, since she is the most senior ranking member of the staff. The Professor had an unusual bureaucratic arrangement, and it seems that our sister was the primary source of all his advancements. Now that she is no longer going to be a part of this venture, it appears that the future of this organisation is entirely up to the new head of operations.

Molly looked absolutely stunned, “Me?” She looked a bit wild around the eyes, “Why me? I’m in charge? No, that’s probably not a good idea. Is it? A good idea, I mean. Me being in charge. That’s not something anyone would accept, would they?” Doctor Hooper looked completely flustered but it was obvious that she was dithering her way toward accepting the sudden changes, “I do know all about the various programs that are running, and I’ve always wanted to branch out our services outside of the sex industry. Why, imagine if we could improve how semi-organic structures operate, or what if we could begin to correct genetic flaws so that people like your sister don’t need to suffer so…”

Mycroft gently interrupted, “I am sure you have many good ideas, Doctor Hooper. Your staff will be involved in many ground-breaking discoveries, I am certain.”

Later that evening, John and Sherlock were sighing with relief. Mycroft and Gregory had taken over from their end and had finally left the pair in peace. The new couple was in Sherlock’s old home, temporarily ensconced in Mycroft’s long-empty old rooms while the interior damage was carefully repaired by a team of specialists. It would take several days for the scarring to be removed and for the entity who had once been Mummy to complete repairing the damage. Entire sections of contaminated material had been excised thanks to Moriarty’s weapons but their home would recuperate.

John was fascinated with everything, and though Sherlock found it immediately frustrating, he taught his bond mate all he could remember about the world they were going to live in. They spent part of the day taking brief trips all over the world using the cube, and John was beside himself with excitement regarding their freedom of movement. Sherlock recalled how difficult it had been to just getting around London, and that he’d never even managed to get as far as Scotland or Ireland, and never even a glimpse of the rest of Europe, nor any other part of the planet so he had a fairly good appreciation for the opportunities that lay in front of them. They were free to do whatever they wished, and they had all the time in the world to do it in.

Once the repair teams had departed, and the House was in a state of healing somnolence, John and Sherlock sat together and admired the stars from a viewing platform on the roof. Sherlock had never done such a thing before but had easily agreed to bring up a bit of fabric to lay out on. “They’re so bright. I haven’t seen this many stars since I was in the war. It’s all so different. For some reason, I thought they’d be the same.” Sherlock and John held hands as they gazed into the strange sky. Neither of them recognised the constellations or could name the craters that made this moon different from the moon that earth had. It was beautiful.

“This world doesn’t have the same kind of pollution yours does, though we do have our own set of problems. Our public lights are placed so that they don’t interfere as much as they do on earth either, everything is designed to create a greater overall harmony and integration with nature. I imagine that in the observable universe, uncounted minute changes have happened that did not happen in your reality, causing the spatial dispersal of matter to follow slightly different paths. That our world alone is similar is one of the many miracles of multiple universes.” Sherlock pulled John’s hand up and placed a gentle kiss on it as the smaller man gazed at his new world raptly. He could sense so much about John, feel the wonder he was experiencing, the contentment, and the growing hunger. The differences between the places they both came from were intriguing but discussing it further wasn’t how Sherlock felt like using his time currently. “Let’s go inside John.”

John’s new body didn’t need sustenance any more than Sherlock’s did. It was regrettable that John was no longer able to sustain Sherlock in quite the same way as he had on earth but feeding their bodies wasn’t what they had on their minds right then. The moment they were back in their rooms, John caught Sherlock up in a deep kiss. Neither of them needed to breathe so they didn’t bother, allowing the kiss to grow from playful affection to searing desire without a gasp. When they did break away finally, John grinned up at his mate and winked cheekily, “So, technically I’m a virgin again.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but also looked interested, “True enough, John.” He pinned the smaller man down on the firm mat that served as a bed. It was directly on the floor. Apparently, furnishing inside of sleeping chambers wasn’t the fashion. All possessions were hidden away inside of translucent nooks that opened when touched, otherwise, the room appeared relatively bare. “Molly sent along a kit.”

“Yeah?” John was wiggling a bit beneath Sherlock. His new body was even more sensitive than his original one had been and the biting kisses that Sherlock was delivering were making him lose track of his ability to use words. “What’s in it?”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounded spectacularly offhand, “This and that. Bits and bobs.” He kissed John some more, “Stuff.” He shrugged carelessly but enunciated the last word so clearly that it was making John grin.

“What kind of _stuff_ , Sherlock?” Sherlock kissed his smile and grinned back. “Sherlock?”

“Want to lose our virginity together?” Sherlock sounded earnest so John didn’t quite know what to make of that but he was definitely up for a challenge. He felt energetic and happy. His new flesh was fully matured, and he looked exactly as he had prior to joining the army, hard-bodied, fit, and flawless. The only exception was a large mar on his shoulder where Moriarty had stabbed him with an as yet unidentified compound and it made John’s artificial flesh heal poorly but it didn’t hurt at least. It interfered with his fine motor control a bit. Molly was going to work on a cure of some kind but it would take time since John’s genetics were alien to this world. What worked for everyone else here wouldn’t necessarily work for him. Despite that, he was still able to flip Sherlock onto his back and raise an eyebrow, “I’m taking that as a yes.” Sherlock was smirking, “Wait here, my love.”

John’s grin grew. Sherlock left the bed and extracted a long hard case from a now visible section of wall. The tall man carried it away with him into what John mentally called the _loo_ but what was referred to here as the _cleansing_. It had something very similar to a shower as well as a bathtub but also their version of a toilet that John hadn’t quite gotten the hang of yet because it involved some crouching as well as some very thorough automatic washing. To him, it felt weird but he couldn’t deny the efficacy of their methods. Luckily, he’d almost never need to use it. John listened to whatever Sherlock was doing, his hearing as acute as his lover’s, but he couldn’t make sense of the noises he was hearing. Sherlock muttered a bit about _program compatibility_ and _storage capacity_ but that just confused John further. _What in the world was Sherlock doing in there?_ “Sweetheart?”

“One more moment, John.” Sherlock came out a full minute later, swathed from shoulder to ankle in cloth. John now understood why Sherlock had so much enjoyed swanning about 221 B Baker Street in his blue housecoat. It must have subconsciously reminded him of the fashions he’d grown up with. John had to admit that Sherlock cut a very striking figure in the drapes and folds of his robe. He stood there looking down at John who remained sprawled out on the firm mat. “What do you recall about Moriarty’s primary business?”

John shrugged, “He made fancy sex toys.”

“Essentially, yes, but beyond that, what was his purpose?” Sherlock smiled encouragingly.

John thought about it. _Sherlock was incredibly talented sexually. His skills were programmed right in there, that was his job or might have been if they’d used any other brain than that of the actual Sherlock Holmes._ That wasn’t what Sherlock was getting at here, though, so John thought harder. He vaguely recalled the comment about hip replacements and made the connection, “He also designed human replacement organs in order to keep people physically healthy. It sounded like kind of a bespoke body-part kind of thing.”

“Yes John, precisely.” Sherlock’s smile was mysterious now, “Why, do you suppose, that when you are living in a society that has the ability to easily repair their physical form that they would require such advanced human appearing toys to copulate with? Wouldn’t you think they’d be able to purchase the temporary company of an agreeable partner in order to satisfy their desire? It’s not considered unseemly in this culture, in fact, nearly every kind of taste can be openly accommodated if you are both of consenting age.”

John cringed at the idea of stepping out on a relationship, especially the one he had with his mate and that just made Sherlock’s eyebrow rise knowingly. John put together another clue, “ _Fidelity_. You might have a fantasy but you don’t necessarily want to step out on your partner secretly or perhaps your partner isn’t interested in that particular thing or, well, I guess there are lots of reasons not to do that. Not everyone likes to pay for sex though I understand the appeal of no-strings-attached relief.”

“Humans are essentially the same on all worlds. We like sex, all kinds of sex, and our urges are as varied as there are individuals. Toys or blanks such as you and I had been, were produced specifically for their ability to adapt to the needs of their owners. So, we heal fast because our owner might like to have very rough sex or maybe they enjoy pain. We are flexible, indefatigable, difficult to permanently damage, and apparently, we can thrive off of the small quantity of human cells we are compelled to ingest. I’ll miss doing that.” A salacious wink made John blush but also caused him to stroke a hand gently over the key still embedded in his chest. It made Sherlock tingle in return. He smiled warmly down at his lover, “This world doesn’t subscribe to specific gender pairings. Procreation is not our penultimate drive though there is great satisfaction in such acts. Pleasure is sought purely for its own sake.” Sherlock began unwrapping himself and John’s gaze wandered downward, “Until you were with me, you’d never had a man, had you?”

“You know I hadn’t.” John wasn’t ashamed about that. He had been interested in women. There was nothing like having a woman’s body surrounding you, wet, pulsing, tight, and so welcoming. He hardly regretted Sherlock though, sex with him was indescribably good. John missed nothing. Sherlock paused at the last moment, holding the length of fabric in his fingers, obscuring his hips just a bit, “Sherlock?”

“I just want you to enjoy yourself, John.” Sherlock’s cheeks were a bit pink but his eyes were dark with growing desire, “I want to try everything with you, just with you. I want all our first times here to be with just each other, and I want to give you everything you might ever need or want.”

John’s heart felt full to bursting. Sherlock was so beautiful, so sincere. “I love you, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s smile was both shy and radiant, “Go on then, surprise me, love.”

Sherlock let the cloth fall away and now John sat up in complete shock. _“Your cock is gone!”_ He was nearly shouting. Where Sherlock’s penis had once lain was now an expanse of pubic hair. John was on his knees, staring, his mouth agape. “I had no idea. What?” He looked up at his lover, “Do you now have a vagina? Where is your cock?”

Sherlock looked a bit torn between unhappy embarrassment and nervous hope. “Our bodies have extensive adaptable qualities. My male organs are in the storage container that held this.” He looked less confident now, his shoulders drooping, “I thought you’d like it. I’ll just go…swap it out.”

“You have a _plug and play_ vagina?” John knew he wasn’t making Sherlock feel any better and he wanted to hit himself for being such a clumsy fool. He adored Sherlock but this was just…adjustment was necessary. He swallowed hard, reached out, and stroked his fingers gently over it. Sherlock’s body twitched a bit, “How did that feel?”

“Odd.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, hesitant, “I didn’t go about this very well. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I should have discussed it first.”

John shook his head, “No, it’s not that.” He blinked, “I really love your cock, though.” He looked up, “Did you really want this or are you just doing it because you think I’d prefer you being a female rather than a male?”

Sherlock’s shrug was deliberately careless but he wouldn’t meet John’s eye, “You prefer women over men, it was in the kit, I thought I’d give it a go.”

John shook his head, “I prefer _you_ over anyone.” He caught Sherlock’s arm and tugged him down on the bed beside him, “So, exactly how virginal _are_ you?” He winked at Sherlock and just like that, things were playful again.

“I have a hymen currently.” Sherlock reported gravely, “If that’s a kink of yours.”

“Only when it belongs to Sherlock Holmes.” John kissed him then, tenderly laying Sherlock back onto their bed, “This is going to be strange.”

Sherlock took his hand and lay it meaningfully over his new genitalia, “I want to learn what it feels like. _Cunnilingus_ , if you please, John.”

John’s laugh was always a delight, “Whatever you want, my darling.” John began with a kiss, claiming Sherlock’s mouth tenderly. He worked his way down that long pale body, touching and stroking every inch of it. Sherlock had made a request and John was very certain of his skills in this particular area. His cock had always made sex problematical for him and learning to pleasure his partners with his mouth had been a necessary skill, one that he’d more than mastered.

Sherlock spread his legs willingly, his cheeks rosy with both arousal and shyness. John positioned himself, angling his face so that he could do what he wished easily. Sherlock’s thighs were spread wide, and John made sure to spread a multitude of kisses along them as he worked his way forward. “I like the natural look,” John winked at Sherlock and both men laughed easily together. The new region looked as if it belonged there as if there had never been anything but a gently folded slit and a slightly wild tuft of hair. John ran a gentle fingertip along the tender flesh and watched as Sherlock’s hips jerked a bit, “Sensitive, are we?”

Sherlock nodded. John’s fingers were remarkably skilled and he’d always enjoyed their intimacies together, but the sensations he was processing were unlike the ones he was accustomed to, and it was taking him a moment to adjust to the changes. His insides felt strange as the weight of his temporary female organs pressed him in new ways, curving his belly out into a gentle pot that John ran his hand over. When the good doctor bent down and began exploring with his tongue, Sherlock found that his back was arching of its own accord and that he was trying to spread himself as wide as possible. It felt exquisite. John’s tongue was warm, wet, and firm. He definitely knew what he was about, far more than Sherlock did, that was for certain. Sherlock had no idea that it could feel so good to have his labia mouthed, to feel the texture of John’s tongue slide across the hood of his clitoris, causing him to use several curses that weren’t relevant to this reality.

Sherlock was grateful for John’s stamina when he realised that the build-up of necessary tension was on a different scale now. He could feel himself grow wet, felt how his hips and torso undulated, felt how he couldn’t stop his hand from gripping John’s head to press that amazing mouth tighter to him. Despite his lack of need, he was gasping for breath as his cries grew frantic. John stopped teasing and seemed to latch on, his brilliant tongue doing a strange kind of _pulsating throbbing fucking insanely brilliant brilliant brilliant thing_ and then words failed him completely.

John tried his best to watch Sherlock reach orgasm but he was busy causing it to happen. Sherlock’s flavour was strange, different, but still delicious. He was wetter than any woman John had been with before, and it took all his self-control to keep himself from pressing a curious finger inside. Carefully, he had parted those delicate petals and taken a good look at the full flower. Sherlock was gorgeous, and John was now anxious to move along to the next step.

His lover lay placid and content, chest heaving, and a slight glaze of sweat making his brow glisten. “That was incredible, John.” Sherlock’s hand lazily stroked over his less than flat belly, “Your army reputation was well earned.”

John took himself in hand and gave himself a stroke or two to relieve his own need for touch, “I’m glad I haven’t forgotten how to do that.”

“So am I.” Coyly, Sherlock allowed his long fingers to touch himself as he whispered, “Is it time?”

John wanted to go slow, but it was so difficult to restrain himself when it was Sherlock. “Yes, love, it’s time, oh it’s time.” John knelt between Sherlock’s legs and positioned the fat head of his cock against Sherlock’s small untried opening, “I don’t know if this is going to work, darling, I’m usually too big for women to handle.”

“The head, at least,” demanded Sherlock, pressing himself down and wincing, “Ow, why does it have to hurt?”

“Tearing membranes in a nerve rich region is never going to feel fantastic.” John paused, “Are you certain, Sherlock? We don’t have to do this. I was perfectly happy the way we were.”

“Just this once, at least, John, please. I’m ready.” Sherlock resorted to pulling John down on top of him, his knees pulled high so that he was spread beneath the soldier was much as possible, “Let’s see how far you can get, alright? If it’s too much for me, we can stop, and I can change back.”

John nodded, “You let me know the second you don’t like this anymore, okay? No being stoic or just letting it happen. It’s going to kill me if I find out later that you hated this and didn’t tell me.”

“I promise, John, just fuck me already!” Sherlock’s voice was impatient, and it made John relax. “Now?” he asked demandingly.

“Git.” John was filled with such love. Carefully, he used his hand to guide himself inward. Sherlock’s body resisted, even after the orgasm it had just enjoyed. He was still incredibly wet and slick so the head of John’s cock began its inward journey with only minor difficulty. John felt the small pressure of the hymen against his cockhead and he paused again.

Sherlock felt his entire body grow tense. He was filled with the urge to pull back as John pushed forward but stubbornly he refused to give into his body’s instinctive reactions. When John stopped, he Sherlock reached down to grasp his hips, and pulled John closer still, “This does not feel amazing yet John, but I know you will make it happen.”

John nodded sharply. He ceased dithering, set his knees in a better position, drew his hips back slightly and pushed forward. Both of them felt John tear past the resistant tissue, forcing Sherlock’s new passage open enough to reluctantly receive a bit of John’s cock, “I regret how big I am.” John said sorrowfully, “Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes were closing. The stingy raspy pain was not insignificant but it was also not a deterrent. Instead, his transport was demanding an increase of positive stimulation in response. It wanted that pressure to increase, to feel the way John’s cock invaded him, to fill him. “More,” he croaked, “Harder.”

John hung his head. The sensation of being partially inside Sherlock was already overwhelming. At Sherlock’s urging, John began to thrust shallowly, rocking himself deeper and deeper into his lover’s body. When Sherlock managed to take the head of John’s cock fully, both of them needed to stop for a moment, “I feel like everything inside me is being rearranged. Your cock has been up my arse but that feels nothing like this. I think we can do it, John, I think we can get your entire penis inside of me. Do it.”

John wasn’t sure if that was possible, if only because he was almost on the edge of orgasm right at that moment. The end of his shaft was barely inside, and it was so good that he was nearly ready to cry. “Sure?” he asked, “Not too much?” He wasn’t able to speak with a great deal of eloquence right then.

Sherlock understood anyway, “No, it’s good John, so good. Go on, just keep doing what you’re doing. See how far you can go. You can’t damage me, not really. It just feels…new.” John did as he was asked, thrusting and grinding down, using his hands where he could to stimulate Sherlock further, making him wetter, making him clench, making him moan. Sherlock felt torn wide open and beautifully used. John’s cock was almost too wide to fit easily, but slowly his body relaxed around it. He loved the slick inward slide, and the way it felt when John withdrew. It took many careful firm thrusts before their groins met once more, and John’s face was filled with surprise. “You’re in.” Sherlock smiled. He ached from the stretch of it but the pain was melding with pleasure, making it acuter. It would only get better, he knew it.

John looked down at their pelvises, “I would never have thought.” John was completely astonished. He knew their bodies were durable but the amount of give that had been required in order for him to be fully seated inside Sherlock wouldn’t have been physically possible for a normal person. John had never managed this with a woman, not ever. His cock was too long, too fat, too much for any woman to take in, so he never had. He’d never forced himself onto a woman and dreaded causing anyone sexual pain due to his size but Sherlock wasn’t complaining, he was nearly purring. “You’re incredible.”

“ _Gräfenberg_ , John.” Huffed Sherlock impatiently, “Now.”

“Don’t tell me how to fuck, Sherlock.” John growled but he was only teasing, “I know what you want.” John shifted position so that his thrusts had a different angle. He didn’t go as deep as he could, for this, it wasn’t necessary. He knew he’d succeeded when Sherlock began to moan wantonly, his exploring fingers working over his clitoris with delicate devotion. John fucked him intently, watching Sherlock touch himself until he came, his passage squeezing and tightening rhythmically. It was strange and fascinating but John didn’t stop moving. Sherlock was moaning again and he was so wet that John found he could move with ease. Every few strokes he buried himself completely, and it made Sherlock nearly yelp each time.

They settled into a very satisfactory pattern of rocking and thrusting that ended with Sherlock’s legs high in the air as John pounded furiously into him, one hand pressed over Sherlock’s abdomen in order to feel himself inside of his lover. Sherlock came with a series of grunting cries just as John planted himself as deep as he could go and held himself there, his hips grinding forward. Sherlock keened again as another orgasm ripped through him and John almost lost focus. Timing it carefully he rocked himself slowly in and out until Sherlock had calmed just a bit and then began to take him hard one more time. When Sherlock came yet again, he bit John’s shoulder as his body shuddered and twisted. That last bit of intense sensation undid John completely and he came deep inside Sherlock, his own groan of release deep and rough.

They lay there united for several very long moments before Sherlock was able to speak again, “Multiple orgasms. I’ve gotten the better part of this deal.” John laughed tiredly. He was currently laying right on top of Sherlock, their sweaty bodies fitted together snugly. “So, did you like that?”

John clearly considered it, “It was fantastic, it really was, so yes?” He paused again, “It’s not really you though.”

Sherlock understood. It had indeed felt incredible, and no doubt they would use it again, but it wasn’t necessary as a permanent option. “People on your world would kill for a chance to just take it out and trade it in.”

John giggled. “You’d never need performance enhancing prescriptions ever again.” Now both of them were giggling, “What about you. Did you like it?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to consider it, “It was very different having you inside of me like that. Losing my hymen was very unpleasant, so I doubt I’ll get a new one installed though I could. Perhaps I’m biased because I’m more accustomed to how we’ve previously made love, but I think I’d like to put my cock back on and leave my vagina in storage until we want to give it a go again.”

John kept giggling though he tried not to. “This is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done.”

“We’re just getting started, John.” Sherlock grinned once again and kissed his lover robustly. “Come along, help me with this.”

John went to the cleansing with Sherlock and learned where to press in order to remove the genitalia. It left a disturbing temporary gap between Sherlock’s legs, but soon enough, his original equipment was reinstalled and was being vigorously tested by a very anxious doctor. John took Sherlock into his mouth, and there on his knees, made Sherlock beg for more before allowing the detective to come down his throat. Sherlock wasted no time falling to his own knees and allowing John to use his mouth, plunging deeper and deeper until John was able to spend himself while completely encased in Sherlock’s mouth and throat. By then, Sherlock was aroused all over again, and John remained on his knees while his lover crouched behind him, thrusting eagerly into his tight body. When Sherlock had spent himself again, John carried him back to their bed where he proceeded to ravish Sherlock thoroughly, not stopping until he was once again pounding deep into Sherlock’s arse, his come sent deep into Sherlock’s body.

Their sex frenzy lasted a full night and a day. It might have continued for longer if Mycroft had not sent them a notification about an impending visit. Reluctantly, they cleaned themselves up, managed to dress, and met Sherlock’s brother in the common room. Mycroft was transferring full control of their home over to Sherlock. He lived with his husband now, and since there was nothing left to protect Sherlock from, Mycroft had decided to give up his claim on behalf of his brother. Over hot drinks, Mycroft reported on the developments at the facility. “All of the children were successfully delivered and have been assigned wet-nurses. Doctor Hooper has taken it upon herself to oversee their care, so should you choose to meet your clones, you know where they are all currently located.”

“She’s keeping them there?” John was aghast. “Why?”

“The Sherrinford facility is state-of-the-art, even in this world. The children can receive the best care possible there, and where would you suggest that we go about raising twenty infants simultaneously? Here? Mummy would be delighted of course, but how interested are you in changing nappies and soothing crying babies?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

John felt terrible at his neglect. _Those poor children! They needed family, love._ “We’ll go today. We should be there. I didn’t even think.”

Sherlock’s reaction surprised the other two men, “I am interested.” Even John looked shocked but Sherlock continued, “I know it’s not been a concept that I’ve ever considered but that is greatly beside the point. These children did not ask to be manipulated into existence. It is not their fault that they are here and they should not suffer for choices that were not theirs to make. I may not have ever considered being a parent but I know myself enough to know that they will need a particularly powerful brand of love in order for them to feel alright about themselves.” He looked at Mycroft who seemed to be in some emotional distress, “You did the best that you could with me, Mycroft. You aren’t a natural nurturer but you made sure I was well cared for in all ways except one. I needed love, not just information, and that’s what I want to give these children. John can show us how. He has an infinite capacity for love.”

Mycroft’s eyes softened and he seemed very proud at that moment, “Indeed, brother mine. We will most certainly need guidance.” The brothers looked at the shocked doctor, “So, Doctor Watson? It seems that Doctor Hooper would like to focus on saving the world and raising Sherlock’s children as well as hers, care to help?”

John was grinning. This wasn’t anything he’d ever expected but there was no choice necessary. He was on a new world with his bond-mate by his side. There was a brilliant future in front of them involving family, friends, and a chance to make a lot of lives a great deal better. There was so much to learn and so much to do and his life would last for decades longer than he’d ever expected to exist, and Sherlock would be with him for all of it. “Oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story could go on for a million years. There are so many directions it could take. It could have been two million words long. There were so many potential details that could have been added, and so many plots and threads that I could have included. This fic has taken many months to produce and it underwent severe changes with every single edit. Some ideas I reluctantly let go so I hope that what was left made sense to all those who read this work. Thank you all for reading this evolution.


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